


Waking the Dragon

by tsukinofaerii



Category: Captain America (Comics), Iron Man (Comic), Marvel 616
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dragons, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Multi, Politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-14
Updated: 2012-04-14
Packaged: 2017-11-03 15:48:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 72,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/383159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsukinofaerii/pseuds/tsukinofaerii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Since humanity first started spreading across the land, pushing dragons back by sheer numbers, tensions have been high between the species. War is nearly endless, and Prince Tony, the half-human heir of the dragons, is sick of it. When King Howard of the dragons is poisoned, the fate of everything sits in the balance. In desperation to save his own life and to prevent decades of fighting over the throne, Tony sets off to find a cure. </p><p>Down in the foothills, Legati Steven of the human army finds himself with a missing friend and assassin, a suspiciously cagy adviser to the ruler and a desperate need to be <em>less</em> interesting. In the interests of scuttling his own career, he starts on his own mission to find his answers. When he runs into Tony, they discover just how complicated things really are.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the Captain America/Iron Man Reverse Big Bang, with the artist PhoenixMetaphor. Links to the art are scattered through the story. Live Journal links to her safe for work art are [here](http://phoenixmetaphor.livejournal.com/1253.html), and the NSFW art is [here](http://phoenixmetaphor.livejournal.com/970.html). Dreamwidth equivalents are [here SFW](http://phoenixmetaphor.dreamwidth.org/811.html) and [here NSFW](http://phoenixmetaphor.dreamwidth.org/588.html). Please go and tell her how amazing her art is!
> 
> Thanks to Valtyr for a wonderful beta job

Fire lit the cavern with a sphere of blue-violet, weaving patterns in the air with each lick of heat. It drew runes with smoke as it dissipated up through the small cracks in stone that substituted for windows The sphere hovered just a few feet off the floor, a whole wingspan wide, metal shimmering white-hot in its center. The fire was the only real light visible in the cavern, everything else having dimmed. 

[Prince Anthony of Aži-Táriyat](http://i1169.photobucket.com/albums/r514/phoenixmetaphor/rbb/princeconcept_thumb.jpg) paced just beyond its edge, pushing here, pulling there, palms manipulating the ball as if it were clay. The three false claws on his left hand carved out runes on the surface. They sparked and filled in with silver before being absorbed into the ball. For this, he'd stripped down to a loose set of pants and nothing else. Scorch marks had already ruined them, searing holes in the linen whenever he brushed too close to the fire. On his bare chest, the symbol of the royal line glowed blue, a flared set of dragon wings centered over the circle of the sun. "Come on, come _on_ ," he hissed in Ažiliasán as a bulge appeared in the sphere, requiring smoothing over. Power fluttered like a caged bird, not happy with being kept under so much pressure. "Just a little longer, almost _there_..."

The sphere gave a heave and then finally compressed, squeezing tight into a ball half the size. With a whoop, Tony set it to spin, pushing his hands across the bottom to mold it into a funnel. Its metal heart pulsed, glimmering like captured sunlight between the occasional burst of flames and finally flowing like liquid. When the funnel came to a point, it squeezed down, pouring into a mold, magic crackling over the surface of the already cooling metal. He kept the pressure up until the last drop had fallen, then dismissed the flame with a barked command. It released like a puff of dandelion flowers on the breeze. 

Shadow took over the workshop, leaving only the faintly glowing mold. Tony blinked and squinted, rubbing his eyes irritably until they started to accommodate the darkness. He used the runes that layered the floor as a test, staring at them until they started to come into focus properly, and then tilting his head back to stare at the high, natural rock of the ceiling, then around him. Tables and other projects that had been bundled up and pushed out of the way slowly came into focus as his eyes adjusted. Proper night vision was beyond him, but he refused to bumble around in the dark. 

When he could see again, Tony knelt down and ran a clawed finger through the molten metal, watching the way the silver parted in its wake. Heat that would have destroyed another man's hand was only a faint tickle on his skin. It would be the start of a dragon breastplate, when he was done, strong enough to catch the weight of a boulder but light enough to fly in. It was his third attempt at making the alloy, and he was _almost_ sure he had it this time. 

Assuming the alloy worked out, it would be a welcome home gift. If Rhodey wore a breastplate to fight, and it worked, even Howard would be hard-pressed to refuse to let Tony make more. Other dragons might even be willing to try them. A small victory, but Tony had learned to claw them out where he could. It was better than making jewelry and toys to pass the time while others were off fighting the real battles. Anything would be better than sitting around to see who came back and who didn't.

Waiting was the worst of everything Tony had put up with in his twenty five years. He hated it more than the pitying glances from the castle staff, more than the long silences from his mother or the gloating ones from his cousin. He'd never been allowed to go to the war-front, didn't have the right temper to be a healing mage and was too vulnerable without being able to change into a proper dragon form. There was something dirty about sitting around being useless while his friends were on wing.

As the mold cooled, the giant set of doors on the east wall nudged open with a groan of tired metal. Cold air rushed in as a copper dragon poked her head in. "Your highness?"

"Right here, Pepper."

Scales scratched against stone as Pepper let herself in, slithering up the wall of the cliff that was directly beyond his workshop. She settled around one of the tables that hadn't been moved entirely against the wall, her great head nearly as big as it was. "Will that be for your armor?" The question was a whisper, but spoken using a voice made for roaring. "It looks... big."

"It's a gift for someone," Tony smiled and pulled his fingers out, flicking them to be rid of the metal. Some still gleamed under his fingernails, but when he rubbed them against his leather breeches they left a scorch mark without coming loose. "Is something happening? You know I don't like being disturbed."

Green eyes blinked at him, glowing like jade. Pepper's inner lids slid down in worry. "Your mother asked me to get you," she finally said, tucking her chin so she didn't have to look at him. Fine scales rustled as she shuffled her forelegs, the thin membrane that formed her wings hissing. "Watchers spotted the flight coming through. Her Majesty says—she says Rhodey and Lady Janet are with them."

Tony's heart nearly stopped. The injured and the ill, always the first to leave the summer battlefield, before winter winds made it tricky to fly in the mountains. If Rhodey and Janet were with them...

Without a word, Tony scrambled for the small pile of metal pieces that was his armor. He shoved them on without a care for the scrapes and bruises it gave him. Practice helped him snap it together in only a few minutes. Pepper protested with a hiss, but didn't try to block him as he ran past her and threw himself over the cliff's edge.

Rock rushed by, the occasional slap of a branch or a root trying to catch him, but Tony had long ago cleared the worst of those out. It was one of the few straight falls off the edge of the mountain, one that he used to its fullest. Wind buffeted him, yanking at limbs that he'd locked safely inside a case of iron and magic. He snapped the medallion that powered it into the center of the breastplate. Runes crawled along the outside of the armor, glowing gold on the painted red surface, sparkling uncertainly. Then they flared, bursts of magic pouring from palms and heels, and his fall turned into a swoop that carried him up as neatly as if he'd had wings. 

Low-lying clouds parted as Tony dove between them, twisting his way through the ice-blue sky and around the edge of his peak. There, on the southern horizon, wings blotted out the sky. 

The formation was moving slowly enough that Tony beat them to the marker at the edge of the citadel's direct territory. To someone who didn't know what to look for they might have been a fearsome sight, but he saw the way they broke formation, noted how slowly the wings of even the smallest beat.

As always, his father flew point, and Tony felt some of the tension melt from his shoulders. Every year when Howard went out, there was the chance that some human would get lucky. All it needed was one, and the only barrier Tony had between himself and certain death on the challenge field would be gone.

After making sure he was secure for another year, Tony picked out the large, dull blue bulk of Rhodey near the back. His wingarm was patched white with gauze and bandages, curled as if he would keep it pressed against him if he didn't need it for flight. Runes glowed on the flight membrane, marching up the veins and circling the bandages—painlessness and weightlessness, probably the only thing keeping him aloft. The small gold and white noble dragon darting around him had to be Janet. No one else was that fast in the air. Her wings seemed fine, but her forelegs—that second set of limbs that was unique to noble dragons—were tucked up against her chest. Something about the way she held it suggested it was for more than convenience.

Tony circled slowly to stay out of the way and keep from fouling anyone's wings. Dragons craned their heads around when he passed, nodded, and then turned their attention back to the rigors of flying wounded. It didn't look like they'd taken heavy injuries, but the lower level were pallbearers—four large fliers at each corner, their hind legs clutching heavy poles that connected to the nets. 

Three bodies this time, two pale flashes of hide that were probably ice dragons, and a deep red that could have been nearly anyone. A fortune in losses for species that was practically immortal. 

Breath came short, even though the magic of his armor kept the wind from stealing it. There was no telling who was in the nets until they were set down. Hank, Happy and Bruce were all missing from the flight, but it could have been that they were staying on the front lines until the winter was truly started. It didn't _have_ to be the death of a friend this time. 

Circuit complete, Tony kicked in a last burst of power and flew to the front, where his father led. Black on black, with only a few bandages and the glowing blue crest marring the clean lines of his chest scales, the king was everything his son wasn't. Horns pressing back against his skull in annoyance, Howard rolled one dark eye at Tony and snorted a shower of sparks. Tony saluted in the human fashion—the best he could do without wings—and took his place below and to the back. 

With the injured, a trip that had taken Tony only a few minutes took nearly an hour of labored flight. No one spoke, not even to whisper into the wind. They passed over the shreds of farmland, poor scrub crops that were all that grew in the mountains. Farms quickly turned to dark granite rock, spotted with isolated valleys of green and blue brilliance where shepherds nursed their flocks. As the flight passed, the shepherds turned their heads up and fanned their wings in silent respect. 

The citadel naturally took up the most striking outcropping, curling around not the highest peak, but the best for stability in architecture. Smooth lines and domes of magic-carved stone had been cut into the very heart of the mountain. Immediately below it spread a valley all hemmed in by deep walls and sudden drops. Everywhere there was space the walls crawled with spell work etched on in gold and silver. The healthiest veered off to clear the skies, taking up temporary perches on quartz-studded domes and walls.

Queen Maria waited quietly in the back of the landing courtyard, her pale blue gown nearly the same color as the sky, wrapped with a toga of deep purple protecting her silvering hair from the wind. It whipped and flared in the breeze, layers and layers of delicate silk. She was mage enough that time wound around her, but it had started to leave its touch nonetheless. Pepper, Naia, Sunset and his mother's other ladies waited behind her, tiny and wingless for the moment, dressed in the more common long tunic and leggings. Morgan, still his proper size and shape as always, toadied up to the ladies in the back, one wing stretched out to shade them as he chatted to Rumiko. 

Howard tucked his wings and dove, landing with precise grace in the center of the courtyard. Almost before he finished touching down, his shape shimmered, slipping easily into a two-legged skin. A human-shaped servant rushed forward to offer him a thick fur robe against the cold, though his rich crimson tunic and dark leggings had stayed with him through the change.

Tony waited until his father had finished changing before following him down, armor landing heavily by comparison to his father's graceful fall. 

_Protection. Safety. Peace._

He felt it as he touched down on the snowy granite, a shiver as the familiar magic of home wrapped around him. None of them reached his workshop, to keep the ancient spells from interfering with his projects, and he never missed them until they wrapped back around him. A child's spell, but necessary for so many dragons sharing a den. Tempers flared on even the best of days, and a fight between dragons was never clean. 

The air beat with the thunder of wings as the flight landed in ranks after him, the most heavily injured landing first. Those who could went off to their own quarters, while the rest were quickly shuffled off to the healer's halls for treatment. The pall bearers hovered overhead, wings straining until the king waved them on to the rising spires of the temple sanctuary, where they'd lay their charges down for the final time. 

The king and queen stayed near the back together, standing out in the cold until the last set of wings had folded. Howard hooked his arm in Maria's, looking more old and tired than Tony had ever seen him. Snowflakes caught in his eyelashes and hair, giving them the appearance of gray, though dragon immortality guaranteed he'd never look older than a human of thirty. Tony lifted his face plate and waited impatiently for the last of the wounded to come down, eyes locked on the sky. 

Rhodey and Jan were two of the last to land, transforming into two legs almost immediately. Long gashes stood out on Rhodey's ribs and arm, bright red staining through his long-sleeved green tunic. Jan was in her usual black and gold dress, but it was tattered at the hem and her left arm hung at a bad angle. When they tried to come over, Tony shook his head and pointed them inside—he could talk to them after they were treated. Battlefield mages were good for stopgap measures, but not enough. Jan pressed her lips together, but nodded, hooking a hand in Rhodey's belt to tug him along.

As soon as the last person had gone inside, Tony rounded on his father. "Who did we lose?" he demanded sharply, not caring a fig for the curious eyes of his mother's ladies or his cousin. "There were three. Who were they?"

"Three too many," his mother sighed. The fine lines at the corners of her mouth pulled into a soft frown as she tucked her forehead into Howard's shoulder. Snowflakes gathered in her toga, leaving little dark spots where her body heat melted them. 

"None of your friends," Howard added flatly. "And the last for a while. The Seven Hills have agreed to a respite for the winter, as usual, and maybe longer this time. Their army is as tired as ours."

 _Not them, thank the wing mother._ Relief swamped Tony in a wave. He was never sure which was worse—staying behind each spring while his friends flew out, useless for his size and lack of wings, or waiting to see who came home. 

Immediately in the wake of relief came frustration. "Yes, give them a couple of decades to rebuild their army. _Again_." They'd done it before: rested, let hostilities fade to an ugly murmur, and then the Lady of the Hills just found another excuse to declare war on Aži-Táriyat as soon as their population had recovered. Last time it had been the marriage of his parents. The time before, a river that changed course, and before _that_ some sort of a social disagreement. Meanwhile, maybe a double handful of dragons were born in a decade, barely enough to feed the machine of war without ever gaining ground. "That won't bite us on the tail at all."

Dark eyes flickered from human to faintly serpentine as the king stared at him, pupils narrow and sharp. "What would you know of tails?" Maria hissed an objection under her breath, but Howard ignored it as he turned and led her away, trailed by the Queen's ladies. "Morgan, I have a job for a man with wings. Get a traveling pack."

Morgan smirked at Tony and followed, chest puffed and chin high. His wings rustled and flexed proudly as he trotted along, through the arched and rune inscribed entry to the great hall. "Immediately, my king." 

Tilting back his head, Tony looked skyward. The sun was already edging north, and the early snow didn't bode well for the coming weather. But the Seven Hills would be nearly as trapped as they, the border land nearly impassable in the worst of winter. 

Four months. Maybe five, if the winter was long. 

Five months before his friends were back in danger, and he was back on the sidelines, making toys while his friends were off risking death. 

Tony closed his eyes, and pretended that his eyes didn't sting.

* * *

Soldiers hustled, those with work to do getting on with it and those without trying to look like they did, so none would be assigned. It was a practiced chaos, organizing the sick rooms of wounded and getting them loaded into wagons. They would have a long journey ahead, but the truce meant it was safe to ship them back en masse. No dragons would be breathing ice and fire down on the road, no ambushes would wait just out of sight of the army. 

Steve kept a weather eye on his soldiers from just outside his own quarters, along with his captains. The winter truce always brought around a new burst of energy in the legion, a breath of relief as the danger was gone for at least a little while. But in men and women who had been on edge for months, tense for attacks from above that could come at any second, excess energy could turn explosive. He hadn't become the youngest male legati in history by not being able to judge his troops and intervene before it was necessary.

Fortunately, spirits were high enough that intervention didn't look to be a need. It had been a good season, as far as war could ever be a good season. They'd managed to down three of the dragons with only minimal losses of their own, and even the dragon king had taken a few injuries. No one was in a mood to fight with that sort of success at their back. 

Once he was sure things were going smoothly, he Steve turned back to his captains. All of them were bright-eyed and ready for his orders, but one of them stood straight and alert with the attitude of a man out to make it to the top. Steve had tried to help, but it penetrated as well as oil through rock. 

He thanked all seven gods every day that he didn't have to rely on _Clint_. They might as well have surrendered to the dragons outright. "We've all done this before, so you all know what to do." Steve looked around, settling on a bright-eyed woman near the front. "Mary Jane, you're on patrols and standard watches. I don't want a single thing to change until most of the dragons are back at their nest. Don't let your guard down just because they've never given us trouble before."

Mary Jane, one of his newer captains, grinned a little too brightly and knocked her fist into her armor with a quick salute. "Yes, _sir_." 

The impertinence was _just_ the allowable side of acceptable, but Steve eyed her anyway before moving on. "Carol, since you're staying I want you to find out who's interested in staying the winter term. Have them separate into units and give me a list. We need at least a cohort. If you can't find enough, draft them, but try to avoid that. You'll be on your own if there's trouble, and volunteers are easier to manage." 

Carol, who had done the winter watch at least twice that Steve knew of, gave him another salute. Steve nodded at her and looked to her left. 

"Jessica, Monica." The last two women stood up a little straighter. "See about traveling needs. Scout the roads, make sure provisions are ready for the trip. I trust you two to take steps if something's out of line, but bring anything vital to me. And finally..." Last in line, Steve's only male captain was nearly vibrating with eagerness. "Clint, go talk to quartermaster and look over the stores. Make sure that they've got everything in order for shipping out. Take inventory. Check _everything_."

Clint's shoulders sagged slightly. "But—"

One sharp look shut him up. "If anyone needs me, I'll be making sure the enemy actually leaves as promised. You have your orders. Move it." 

All five of them saluted, the women immediately turning to get started on their duties. Predictably, Clint lingered. "Legati, _inventory_?"

 _Scroll and Rose, give me patience._ Steve clasped Clint's shoulder, steering him along toward the warehouse sections of the garrison. "I know. It sounds dull, but it's all dull in winter, and inventory is absolutely necessary."

"But—"

" _Don't_ argue. Just do it." 

Steve watched as Clint trudged off. It wasn't that Clint was a bad soldier; he'd just been coddled as a child, allowed to play war games with the girls and had his head filled with heroics. Skill with the bow had gotten him his rank, but it wasn't going to move him up higher. Once he matured, Steve was sure he'd be a reasonably useful captain, but being surrounded by a team of competent women with well-known mothers and good careers under their belt weren't helping Clint at all. 

Maybe Clint would find a nice woman to take him on over the winter, and decide to leave war to those better suited for it.

Glancing around to make sure everything was under control, Steve headed for the eastern gate at a trot. Along the way he nodded to the Maria's Eyes as she was about to enter the garrison's temple. She met his nod with one of her own, sharp green eyes taking in everything. As, he supposed, was her duty. Though Steve didn't know why Lady Natalia that had been chosen for the task, she hadn't caused problems yet. He could only hope it kept up that way. 

The soldiers on watch at the gate saluted as he passed; Steve took time to check in them before moving on to his goal. There was a handy outcropping of rock there that rose just high enough to keep an eye on the gathering of dragons that was going on to the north. He scrambled up it, using speed where foot- and handholds weren't up to the job, until he could perch at the top and see everything.

He was just in time. The dragons milled in what seemed like a useless mass. Then, one by one, they slowly rose into the air. Scales every color the gods gave glittered in the late autumn sunlight, circling and swooping as, one by one, the dragons took to the sky. Taking off his helm and setting his shield to the side, Steve settled in to watch what the dragon king had called the _first flight_.

Even knowing it was a legion of wounded didn't make it less an impressive sight. Beasts of all sizes and colors layered in formations that were barely understandable to the human mind, three dimensions seeming strange and unwieldy to people used to planning their tactics in two. Graceful wings stretched wider than three houses side by side, long backs arched to catch the wind as scalded hides glimmered like jewels. 

Footsteps padded behind him, deliberately knocking into rocks so Steve would know someone was there. It was all that kept him from jumping as Bucky settled down by his shoulder, soft leather armor too light for the coming cold. 

"They're something, aren't they?" the younger man asked, voice flat and incurious,. He knew the score as well as Steve did. Maybe better. Steve was just a legati, running a legion—Bucky was the one who got sent in when armies would be too little, but a single sharp knife in the dark might be enough to handle a human traitor. "Any stragglers?"

Steve glanced over, meeting Bucky's smile with one of his own. "None yet, but we'd better keep watch, hadn't we?"

Bucky's shoulder bumped Steve's. "You probably scared them off, Dragon Killer." 

Groaning, Steve covered his eyes at the new name for him that was making the rounds. "Don't call me that. It's not like scaring a dragon is hard." Dragons were, in his experience, cowards, but little taste for risking themselves, and centuries of patience to wait. Twenty five years of war was nothing to a dragon. 

"Says the Dragon Killer," Bucky nudged him again. All Steve could do was roll his eyes and keep his mouth shut. 

It was a farce, to sit and watch a nearly immortal enemy retreat, so everyone could recover and start again in better weather. Good lives were wasted, when humans could never hold the mountains and dragons couldn't hold the plains. His soldiers needed rest, more than a few months' worth between battles, but the gods knew there wouldn't be any back in Vítahil. First would be the funerals for the honorable dead, then the winter festivals to keep the darkness out and chivvy the death of the world along for another year. After that would inevitably come the feasting and ceremonies for the honorable living, a round of celebrations that would last right up until spring bloomed and they were back at war. 

_Stupid,_ Steve thought, watching as the dragons grew farther away on the northern horizon, slowly vanishing into the main range of mountains. _Stupid and wasteful._

When Steve failed to rise to his teasing, Bucky let the conversation stay dead. The two of them stayed together as the sun began to set and the first moon rose, wind picking up a biting chill that smelled of coming frost. The flight had long vanished and the second moon touched the horizon before Steve finally sighed and rolled his shoulders. They cracked from hours of being still. "We should make sure the garrison is settled," he said into the evening quiet. 

"You should," Bucky shot back. He leaned forward, arms wrapping around his knees. "I'm watching the stars."

Steve chuckled and patted Bucky's shoulder, then took his shield and helm and left him to the stars and the silence, climbing down into the shadow of the boulders and making for the lights of the garrison. His blue scale tunic jingled as he walked, well-made but too heavy for easy silence. Warm and sturdy as it was, stealth it could never do. Which was, in its own way, a benefit. Unlike Bucky, he seldom had to worry about startling a soldier who had been on duty for too long. 

Guards saluted at him as he passed by the check points, fists crashing into their segmented armor noisily. He nodded tiredly and followed the worn dirt path between barracks. Two decades of feet had given it an undeniable dip, a ridge that was easy to pick out even in the uncertain shadows of twin moons and wide-spaced lamp posts. By general agreement, open outdoor fires were limited to the outside of the grounds and the kitchen yards, making the inside a haven for oil lanterns and candle light.

 _Maybe we should put down paving stones next year for punishment detail,_ Steve thought, somewhat cynically as he toed the rutted dirt. _Ten more years of this and we'll have to bring in dirt by the wagon load just to keep it from flooding in heavy rain._

The garrison was never quiet, but there was a special relaxation to it that night—the ease of soldiers who knew their work was over, at least for a little while. For once, there were no groans and cries of the injured to break the night open—like the dragons, they had already sent theirs back home. Dragons were still a threat, the fires of their watch visible in the distance, but there wouldn't be any fighting. Snow would come, and whoever stayed as a skeleton regiment would tuck in to survive until spring.

He made a slow round of the encampment, keeping his helmet at his hip and his shield slung across his shoulders. Early in the evening or not, most lamps had already been put out and soldiers bunked up. Without a victory to celebrate, there wasn't even a reason to stay up drinking. Of what was left, the evening seemed to be spent more in pairs and trios than around a table with a cask. If the men and women set to watch weren't as sharp as they should have been, or if occasionally a barrack had more shadows than was strictly allowed while they were still technically on the war front, Steve let it pass unmentioned. One night wouldn't hurt, and it would do a world of good for those who stayed behind. 

By necessity, his own accommodations were set apart, away from trees and other buildings where there were precious few shadows to hide even a child-spy. Someone had already lit the lantern by the entrance. When he saw it, his steps lengthened, stride picking up, breezing past the guards and through the simple undecorated door. The warm smell of roasted meat, spices and bread greeted him, along with an exasperated smile. 

"About damned time," Sam grumbled good-naturedly from the table in the middle of the main room, waving him in. He was in a white tunic, cut close to the body until it flared out to highlight his hips and fit legs. Gold embroidery in the symbols of the goddess of Justice glinted at the hem and collar and along the edge of his black toga. "I thought I was going to have to come find you before your food got cold." 

The decor was simple for Steve's position, holding only a plain bed, the table and scattered stools. A patched together rug he'd purchased from one of the local villages kept the chill of the floor from his feet, and a few cushions were scattered here and there in a space that would normally be lush with couches and silks, or even a concubine to idle away the evenings with. It suited him, though. Steve had no need for a palace. Keeping up with his legion left him little enough time to idle away, and what he did have was comfortably spent with his art and friends. 

Two trenchers of dark brown bread rested on the table by Sam's elbow, heaped with slices of meat and vegetables, one showing signs of having already been started on. A shallow dish of spiced olive oil seemed to prove that, the ring of spices on its edge much higher than the level of the oil. An amphora of wine, still sealed with wax, waited in the corner. 

Steve eyed the wine as he sat down and helped himself to the untouched trencher. "Thank you, but I'm used to eating cold meals," he offered, breaking off a piece of bread to dip. The spices were sharp on his tongue, a taste of home that made his heart ache. "You didn't have to."

Sam waved it off, the gold bangle around his wrist glittering in the lantern light. "You've had a long day of arguing with that bastard of a dragon. I've had a boring one of watching you argue with the same. It's nothing."

A few days before, Sam had been sent down from Vítahil to watch the ceasing of hostilities as an escort for the Maria's Eyes. Steve had been glad to see his old friend, but wondered what it meant. Sam was one of the Maria's most trusted advisers, usually reserved for only the most delicate of situations. Nothing about dealing with dragons was ever _delicate_. 

It made him wonder if something more might not be happening under his nose. Politics were no game for a soldier, but he hadn't become a legati by turning his back when the wind carried him its secrets. 

"You're planning on leaving in ten days, aren't you?" Sam asked in the idle tone of one who was only making conversation, or who wanted to be seen that way. "The usual?"

Steve eyed him, but nodded. Packing and returning south for winter wasn't new, or a secret. "A week should be enough. There's no reason to stay here, and it was a hard autumn. The legion's more than due for a rest."

"I expect you're looking forward to returning home?" Sam didn't meet his eyes as he stabbed a piece of meat with his fork, twisting it about aimlessly. "Better weather, familiar faces. Maybe think about picking up a partner while you're there."

Well, _that_ wasn't subtle. Steve set down his trencher and leaned forward, arms crossed on the table. "What's going on?"

"I don't know what you're talking about." 

Annoyance tickled, a slow burn of anger that made the hairs on the back of Steve's neck stand up and the taste of hot ash touch the back of his throat. He pushed it down and away, familiarity giving him control. " _Samuel_. Don't play games."

Sam made a face, but pushed his food aside. "I knew you were going to be like this," he sighed, reaching for the amphora and a set of plain wooden cups. "You're going to want a drink."

Steve let his friend pour him a cup, obediently downing it when Sam waved him on, and then the second when one wasn't deemed enough. When Sam reached for his cup the third time, Steve held on, holding it to his chest protectively. "Explanation first, more drink as needed."

"You drive a hard bargain." Before going on, Sam, poured himself a drink and swilled it, letting the freshly emptied cup drop back to the table with a clatter. "You're getting a lot of attention. Historians are saying you're the youngest man to be a legati ever, and you killed that dragon by yourself."

Soft heat from the wine curled softly in Steve's stomach, but its relaxing influence wasn't enough to keep him from squirming. "I'm just a soldier," he protested, inwardly cringing at the little lie. "I got in a few lucky hits, and I managed to make the right connections. That's not the stuff heroes are made of." 

"Anyone can be a tactician, huh?" Sam snorted and shook his head. "Keep telling yourself that. But it doesn't matter what you think. What matters is that the Lady of the Hills is starting to think that you might be too good for war anymore. She has an _eye_ on you."

Steve's brows drew together. He grabbed the amphora from Sam's loose grip and poured himself another cup, swallowing it harshly to try and be rid of the taste of ashes. "What else is there for a soldier than war?"

"Marriage?"

A ghost of the wine caught in Steve's throat as he choked on nothing at all. " _What_?"

At the very least, Sam had enough dignity to look sheepish, which was twice the amount Steve could even begin to think of scraping together. "I'm not saying it's definite that you're going to be sent out to stud like some old warhorse. You're too useful out here for that. But you have good blood, a good story, and it shows. There's a lot of ladies talking about how they'd like you to take their name, and from the way they sound I think they'd be happy for something less formal. Gentlemen, too. You could have your pick, and I think the Maria would like to see your blood spread around a bit before sending you back out here."

Glancing down into the depths of his cup, Steve swirled the dregs of wine before tipping it back. It wasn't completely unexpected. Lots of decorated soldiers retired while they still had some life in them and spent a few years around the court as advisers of one sort of another, until they either married or retired fully into some sort of useful position. It wasn't unusual for a particularly well-known man to pick up commissions from ladies who wanted a pedigreed sire for their heir without the baggage of a husband, or for an untitled woman to winnow her way through noblemen and take the pick of the litter. 

Steve had even toyed around with the idea, back when he'd first joined the army—a comfortable retirement waited for him just based on his savings, but he knew himself too well to think he could just go start a farm and be content. Entertaining a pretty nobleman or woman wasn't an unhappy prospect, even if marriage never came out of it. The difference between that and _this_ was that he'd planned to be at least forty before he even thought about taking a dip in court. 

But Sam wouldn't warn him if he were just looking at fending off interested suitors for a winter. "What else is there?"

"Steve..."

"Just tell me." 

Sam heaved a sight. "The Maria's been asking about you _personally_. Had someone look through your records, and I think Lady Natalia was told specifically to get a good eyeful of you." 

For a moment, Steve could only stare.

Of course, the Maria could have anyone she wanted, but what she usually wanted was 'advisers'. Soldiers. Men who were more than just pretty faces. Everyone knew that she kept the famous General Fury as her favorite, though he was only seen rarely. No one was sure if it were an honor for his brilliance or punishment for fifteen years of military rule before the Maria had retaken control of the Hills. Her concubines were wealthy, well-kept and their skills were premier in keeping the Seven Hills from falling to the dragons.

They were also entirely hemmed in by the politics that surrounded the Maria day and night. Every movement was turned into gossip. Every stitch of clothing pondered for next year's styles. Steve might have considered retiring to a life of comfort, but that was one trade he wasn't willing to make.

"Hey." Sam reached across the table to clasp Steve's shoulder firmly, fingers slipping under the edge of his shoulder guard to touch skin. "Don't worry about it. It's not like the dragons are going to up and give us the border. The Maria's just been strange lately. She doesn't like a locked-in, tactically stale war."

"No one likes it, but they're not the ones thinking about 'retiring' me." 

"Nothing will happen," Sam promised in a low, intent tone. "You're too good a legati for her _not_ to send you back to the front. You'll get a few offers, spend a busy winter tumbling around beds making some nobles happy, and that'll be that. Maybe she'll take you for a tumble and send you on your way. It won't be that bad." 

"Yeah." Steve forced himself to smile, though the expression felt stiff and unnatural. "Yeah, you're right. It'll be fine."


	2. Chapter 2

Packing up the camp went as smoothly as it usually did, which was just shy of total disaster. The quartermaster couldn't account for a stockpile of linen tunics and sandals. Records hadn't been stored properly, requiring a team of three to sort it out and make sure everything added up. Individual arguments between soldiers flared as the necessity of sorting out belongings forced them into contact. Steve did what he could, but most of it was just a matter of time and patience. His estimation of a week ended up being short by a day, but they were still easily in the allotted time for a return.

The Maria's Eyes watched everything without interference, wandering the camp and making notes on the little wax tablet she carried around, talking to Sam and, most oddly, Bucky in little asides. Now that Steve knew the Maria had been thinking of him, he found himself watching her more closely, wondering if any of her notes were on _him_. Lady Natalia was an odd, quiet sort, with the red hair and pale skin that came more from the northern islands, where snow stayed thick on the ground and even summer had a bite. She didn't interfere with anything, wasn't obnoxious to the soldiers, and didn't expect special treatment for her position. That made her leaps and bounds over some of the nobles and senator's children that had been sent as Eyes to observe in the past. 

On the eighth day, Steve stood by the gate and watched the last flight of foot-drawn wagons collect themselves for the trip south. Snow had finally started, in brief flurries that melted as soon as they touched ground, but it was an ominous sign for the coming winter. Most beasts of burden wouldn't stay in a place where dragons were fighting without years of expensive training, so almost everything had to be carried by hand. Everything that could be left behind for the next spring was, but that still left wagons full of weapons, medicines and other supplies that had to be moved back and forth. 

His eyes skimmed over the remaining soldiers, shade from his blue helm protecting his eyes from the gleam of the rising sun. A cohort of volunteers had offered to stay behind and guard the front against the unlikely event of a winter incursion. About a quarter of them surrounded the wagons in a circle of metal, more of a send-off for their fellow troops than a guard.

As he looked, Steve's brows furrowed slightly. There were nearly five thousand soldiers present, most all of them in full gear for travel. An outsider should have stood out like a cardinal on a snowy field, but no matter where he looked he couldn't see Lady Natalia, not her red hair or even her spring green toga. The docile bay she'd ridden in on was attached to the back of a wagon, with no sign of its owner. Signaling the honor guard to stay in place, Steve waded into the mix of soldiers, dodging people moving crates as the loads were shifted for better balancing. 

He found Sam near the medical wagon, his plain toga lifted to act like a hood against the little clumps of snow. "You need to leave the bandages on _top_ ," he was saying sharply. "It's a three day trip. You think no one's going to get injured?"

"Do what he says," Steve ordered, taking off his helmet and hooking it to his belt. He wrapped his arm around his friend's and tugged him off, using the noise and bustle of the crowd for privacy; no one would be sneaking up on them to listen in as long as they kept moving. "Sam, have you seen Lady Natalia?"

Sam's eyebrows rose and his head ducked down close to Steve's. "She said she was traveling with Bucky. Apparently they knew each other."

Suspicion settled down in Steve's guts, wrapping an icy fist around them and squeezing. He'd _known_ something was up. "Bucky is staying with the cohort," he said slowly. "He was the first one to volunteer." Bucky hadn't spent much time in court, not in places that a lady would have met him casually. Where would he have met someone high ranked enough to be the Maria's Eyes?

"You think something is up?" Polite disbelief colored Sam's voice, a carefully controlled tone of placation that made Steve's hackles rise. "Maybe he changed his mind and switched out with another soldier. There's enough people here that they could get lost easy."

Steve shook his head and started to pull away. "I think that I'd better go look for them." 

Before he could take more than a step, Sam's hand closed around his forearm, yanking him to a stop. Sam's eyes were sharp and intense, voice low with warning. "Steve, listen to me. They're traveling together. Let it go."

The chatter of a legion almost ready to move out faded away, growing distant as Steve's focus snapped in on Sam, the taste of ashes bitter on the back of his tongue. "Is that an official statement from the Maria, or is it something else?"

Sam, who'd never been anything but a good friend but was still a creature of the court, cut his eyes away. "It's advice from a friend. Walk away. You'll see them back home soon enough."

 _Slow, even breaths. Push the heat back down, don't let it get out of hand._ Steve forced himself to take a long minute, staring at Sam as if answers might suddenly bloom across the sky like a flight of birds. "You officially don't know where they are."

A nod of confirmation, and another rising tide of anger that had to be held back. "All right then." Carefully, Steve freed himself from Sam's grip, each movement sharp and precise. As soon as he was loose, he stepped back out of reach. "That means I have a missing soldier and noblewoman on the edge of dragon territory. Get them home safe and I'll meet you there when I can." 

"What? _Steve_!"

Steve ignored him, ducking around a wagon and then around another one to lose himself in the crowd. He paused to pass command on to Captain Monica before heading back to the main camp at a trot. When he looked around, he saw Sam in his black toga, chivying soldiers into marching formation. His shoulders were set in a hard, unhappy line, but he didn't seem to be arranging for anyone to bring Steve back. 

Good. 

The Maria was playing politics with Bucky's life, and Steve didn't like it a single bit. Bucky was a grown man, but also Steve's friend. If the dragons caught Bucky poking around in a treaty-time, there was no telling what they'd do. Steve would be damned if he'd just leave him behind without knowing what was going on.

The woman standing guard at the gate gave Steve a confused salute as he jogged past, turning in place to watch his back. He wove between the pounded dirt streets that were mostly empty, taking short cuts between buildings to a little row of barracks near the back where Bucky bunked when he didn't stay up too late with Steve in the command building. Steve felt guilty, but not enough to stop him from pulling the latch on the door and letting himself in. 

Most of Bucky's things were gone. The travel pack that all soldiers were issued wasn't tucked under his cot, and his non-issue weapons were missing from the case he kept them in: the thin bladed knife Steve had gotten him for his last naming day, the little sling that he could use to take a bird out of tree from two hundred paces. A few personal items were left, a scroll here, a ceramic figurine of a rose there, but most everything had been taken. 

Steve didn't doubt that if he searched the Lady Natalia's lodgings, he'd find the same thing—empty. And neither of them would have even a scrap of clothing on the wagons, he'd bet his command on it. _Politics,_ he thought in disgust, squatting down to run his fingers over the mud on the floor. It was still soft, not dry, so Bucky had been there not long ago. Probably he had packed up and left that morning, when everything was hectic and no one would question a soldier packed for travel. 

Leaving the cabin, Steve trotted back to the edge of the camp, grabbing the shoulder of the first guard he came across, a young man with a shock of dark hair and a red wool cape wrapped around his shoulders for warmth. "I'm looking for Lady Natalia," Steve said. "She might have been with a soldier, might have been alone. Have you seen them?"

The boy shook his head, eyes wide, and then hesitated. "Kate was on duty this morning and said she said she thought she saw two people headed off. She reported it to the captain, but he said it was probably just a pair of lovers saying goodbye," he blurted in a single rush of breath. "But they weren't in uniform and she thought that was weird."

"Good man." Steve patted the boy's shoulder with fatherly gratitude. "Did she say what way they were headed?"

"North, sir. They were headed north."

* * *

Taking a clue from his quarry, Steve had taken time to pack warm clothes and some provisions before setting out after them. A thick fur cloak kept the worst of the winter chill off, and the padding under his armor did the rest. Food, flint, basic hunting items and a wineskin full of water went into his travel pack, which fit neatly under his shield on his shoulders. It was enough for four days, more if he made them stretch, but he didn't expect to need even one day's worth. Bucky and the lady wouldn't have gone too far.

Following the guard's directions, Steve picked up Bucky's trail just outside the northern gate. He hadn't done anything to disguise himself or his tracks, and the faint path through the snow was easy to make out once he got beyond the patrol lines. A second trail joined Bucky's about half-way across the field, and together they'd made their way into the foothills. They'd used small, out of the way footpaths to avoid the dragons' front lines, hiding behind trees and hills too small to conceal an army, and therefore too small to conceal a threat to a dragon. Steve followed, expecting to stumble across some poor soul that was victim of Bucky's latest set of orders from the Maria, or maybe some sort of lodging hidden behind the border's edges.

Instead, the trail just vanished. 

Steve stared down at the last trace of it, near a copse of old pine trees that towered up to the clear blue sky. The snow wasn't thick enough that it had piled under the tree, just enough of a light dusting that he could _tell_ that Bucky and the lady had stopped there. But there was no exit, or any place that he could see that they might have used to double back. It was as if they'd vanished. 

_North_. They'd started out that direction, and there was nothing else in the area for miles. Most of this part of the war took place in the fork where the mountains branched off into two smaller ones; they were surrounded by peaks on the east and west. There was no way to avoid a long hike through nearly impassible terrain without going south first. So if they'd gone north, it would only be because they needed to go into the mountains.

And the only thing in that direction was undisputed dragon territory and, in the worst, most impossible peaks, their nest.  
Turning back would be the safest, most reasonable course of action. If Bucky was headed into the mountains, it could only be because he'd been ordered to. He would have to leave Bucky to the dragons and hope for the best.

He could give chase, and risk being called a deserter on the chance that he could catch up to them before the weather turned deadly. Or he could let them go. Go back to the garrison and wait to find out what Bucky was doing, if Bucky even came back. Any chance of advancement in the Maria's favor, or of becoming one of her 'advisers' would be gone with a tarnished reputation. It would be years before his career recovered. 

In a much improved mood, Steve resettled his pack across his shoulders and started the long hike north.

* * *

Tony braced his feet against the smooth stone curve of the top dome of the citadel, iron boots and gloves digging into little nooks that human shoes wouldn't be able to find. Snow blew in little flurries, not yet enough to make the roof slippery. Rhodey curled around the spire behind him, warm bulk keeping the worst of the cold at bay, injured wing stretched so the bandages wouldn't bunch. It was hard on a dragon not being able to fly. They were practically helpless, and knew it; Rhodey had been so agitated by the injury that Tony had to coax him out with a promise of the sweet-glazed lamb the kitchens sometimes made. Even that had been work. Usually Rhodey didn't eat alone, the way most others did, but injury brought out the recluse in him. 

According the healers, the worst of the wound was the membrane that connected forearm to body. It would heal, but there'd be scar tissue he'd have to learn to accommodate, and real flight was out of the question for at least a month, which would be when the winds were impossible. By the time Rhodey re-learned to fly, it would be nearly fall again.

Guiltily, Tony had been glad to hear it. There'd be no keeping Jan off the battlefield—her foreleg had only been dislocated by a bad attempt at dodging a lobbed bolder and would be healed even before winter finished setting in. At least he'd have one of his friends safe, if only for a single summer. He'd never admit it to Rhodey, though; best friend or not, he wouldn't understand.

The sun was rising, coloring the sky bloody behind a thin layer of clouds. Snow dusted the ground below. It was only a thin layer, but it would get deeper as the weather grew colder. Nothing moved other than the guards perched on the tower-peaks. Weather-watchers estimated two weeks, maybe less, before the mountains were impassible. Already the winds were wicked, howling through the passed from the north, strong enough to wrench a dragon's wings on their worst day. 

It suited his mood. Quiet, isolated, and peaceful—exactly what he needed. 

"We should do this more often," Tony decided aloud, falling back against Rhodey's haunch. Heat from Rhodey's blue hide was more than enough to keep him warm, even with weather that left lakes rimmed with frost. It made Tony wish he could be bigger, better to wrap around each other. "It's nice out here."

Rhodey heaved a sigh, sulfurous breath ruffling Tony's hair. "I'm surprised you don't freeze to death," he rumbled, stretching out his neck to drape over the edge of the dome. Then he paused, wings rustling, and leaned slightly farther. "Is that your cousin?" 

"What?" Metal scraped stone as Tony scrambled to his feet. He grabbed a hold of Rhodey's leg to balance himself as he leaned over the edge of the roof, trying to follow Rhodey's line of sight. "Where?" A cold breeze caught Tony's newly exposed back, sending a chill across his skin. 

"East, flying low." The tip of Rhodey's tail whipped back and forth, scales hissing as they rubbed together. "Where's that little carrion-eater been?"

"Dare you to call him Lord Carrion-Eater." The sun and wind made his eyes water, but he did his best anyway. The angle was bad and his eyes weren't nearly as good as Rhodey's, but if he squinted he could just made out a shadow in the clouds that might have been a dragon in flight. If it was, it was staying low against the land instead of risking the wilder but faster winds higher up. "Maybe he'll challenge you. You sure it's him?"

The ruff of horns and webbed membrane that decorated Rhodey's head rose and fell smugly. "No, he won't. He'd lose. And I can see the crest." 

No matter how hard Tony looked, or how his eyes adjusted, he couldn't turn the shadow into anything certain. Frustration ground into his bones, old as he was and bitter as a mouthful of orange peel. He slid back down to the roof, nearly falling onto Rhodey's shoulder. "I'll take your word for it." 

Morgan had been missing for nearly a week. He'd flown out the day the first flight had landed, and neither the king or queen would say why. Tony had hoped that whatever task he'd been given would keep him gone for the whole winter, but he should have known a sponge like Morgan wouldn't give up his comforts. Even though as an ice dragon the cold wouldn't bother him, he was too fond of the plump goats and sheep that made up the royal herd, and if he ever had to wear something that hadn't been made to the finest specifications he might have fainted. He'd never had to hunt in his life, and the only fights he'd been in were children's tussles that no one in their right mind would take to any serious extreme.

They watched as the dawn finished, easing the world back to the somber gray of clouds and stone, with only a faint golden shimmer where the sun was hidden. By then, Morgan was only visible by his shadow against the snow, pale blue scales blending too well into the landscape and clouds. Rhodey and Tony stayed on the roof until Morgan dived behind a peak and didn't reappear, ducking himself neatly into the low and hidden passes with a skill that made Tony frown. _When did Morgan learn about those entrances?_ It had taken Tony forever to find the tunnels and passes that let out into the lower levels of the citadel. There was no way Morgan could have found them; he never ventured far from the citadel except when he had no choice. 

Tony patted Rhodey's shoulder and stood, tailbone and hips aching with having sat for too long on cold stone. "Come on, time to climb down, before his highness sees us." 

Rhodey grumbled and growled softly, but heaved to his feet and slithered over the edge of the dome, climbing down with claw holds worn into the structure by centuries of dragons. Tony waited until Rhodey was on his way before slipping down himself, letting gravity take him from one cranny to the next. He used the same holds as Rhodey, falling a double man-height each time, practice making it easy to leap and slide his way to safety. A few times ice nearly made him slip, but the spells beaten into his boots and gloves were more than enough to counter that. They dug in like he had proper claws, holding him steady before he let go for the next fall.

Even though falling was nominally faster, Rhodey beat him to the ground by a good few minutes. Tony laughed and patted his shoulder as they headed into the great hall. The ceiling was three times the height of even the biggest dragon; just then a set of three kits from the latest hatching were playing tag, tumbling top over tail with squalls of glee. Tricks of math and geometry forced on architecture kept it stable without supports or pillars, though some ancient soul had taken time to carve runes onto the border to disguise that it wasn't done by the more common route of magic. 

Mosaics of blue sky and dragons in flight curled around the ceiling, eyes and scales set with crusted gemstones that made them seem to dance where the lanterns hit them, as if the art had a secret to tell. Along the walls the mosaics turned to paintings, frescoes of meadows set inside some fantasy forest, human-shaped forms lounging around on pillows with their lovers, amid wild flowers and hummingbirds. 

The art paled next to the real dragons perched on the ceiling and walls, rainbow scales gleaming and muscles sliding with grace no paintbrush could replicate. Two of them were climbing up or down to new levels of the citadel, using claw holds carved straight into rock. A few others just clustered together, gossiping and chattering, while a pair of twin kits only just the size of horses were learning to glide in circles around them.

Tony loved the great hall. Always lively, it was where most socialization happened, the center of life in Aži-Táriyat. It was also the perfect place for a persistently wingless kit to play in without feeling like he was being ignored by the bigger kits.

It was early enough that most other dragons were still in bed, fire-breathers put off by the chill and ice-breathers naturally more nocturnal, leaving the hall nearly empty beyond the few above. Mostly it was servants hurrying here and there that filled the cavern, each bustling to prepare things for their master's eventual awakening. Humans who'd come up from the foothills dodged around Rhodey's legs without pause for thought, doing the odd small jobs that dragons didn't care enough about to see to themselves. They'd been there forever, since the dragons had first taken over the mountains millennia before—too stubborn to leave for the Seven Hills and willing to take advantage of the fine clothing and jewelry that dragons draped their servants with. There were never very many of them in Aži-Táriyat, maybe three families at a time and the ladies who gave the queen human company. Most of them rotated in and out at need, getting what they wanted and moving on in time for another handful to take their place.

With so few dragons up and about, it was easy to pick out a particular vibration, the scrape of stone on stone that only had a few very limited meanings. Low to the ground and lightweight as he was, even Tony could barely feel it.

"I'm going to go catch some shut-eye," Rhodey yawned, making for the wide set of stairs carved into the northern wall that lead down to individual caves. "It's too cold to be awake."

Tony nodded, listening with half an ear, while the other half focused on the slide-scrape of a chunk of mountain moving somewhere below. "Just don't go hibernating on me, you promised you'd help me test that new breastplate." And wouldn't Rhodey be surprised at the size of it.

Rhodey's tail swept along behind him as he lumbered down the steps, tip describing an arc that would have been offensive coming from nearly anyone else. "Whatever you say, your Highness." 

Looking around, Tony checked to be sure he'd been noticed before heading down a smaller set of stairs. Unlike the other, they were distinctly human-sized, the steps spaced close together and the walls uncomfortably tight, curving around in a lazy spiral. Rich woods from islands beyond the sea paneled the walls, decorated with gold paint in abstract designs. The hall usually led to his mother's wing of the citadel, cut deep into the stone where cold winds wouldn't reach her and where the weather wouldn't upset her spell work. But the start of the passage was just like the great hall, a building made by hand and claw.

And it had windows.

The first one Tony found, he pushed the hand-carved cedar screen carefully out of the way and squirmed his arm through to the latch. Like almost everything else in his mother's wing, it was naturally spelled shut; the spell was a simple lock, meant more to protect against the gale winds than against hands. He tripped it with barely a thought. Immediately, the shutter swung open on oiled hinges. The window was nearly as tall as he was, wide-set and with a sill as wide as his forearm was long. It took long minutes of wiggling and squirming to push through the gap in the cedar screen, but the effort was worth it when he finally pulled through and was able to close and re-latch the shutter with no sign that he'd been there.

Ice coated the walls more thickly than it had outside the great hall. Tony's gloves and boots dug in, the sharp points of metal claws clinging against slickness and the tug of wind. Below, a drop of ten stories waited, straight onto the landing plain. He breathed slowly, trying not to feel how the wind cut through his thick leather tunic and trews, couldn't see how his boots were already fogging over from the chill. One handhold at a time, he made his way up and around, curving back around the other way.

King Howard's study occupied the highest tower, set back where no one could fly or cling without being spotted by the guards that occupied each corner of the crenellated wall that surrounded the citadel. But they were dragons, looking for dragon invaders from other kingdoms, or for troops of humans foolhardy enough to think they could fight and live in the mountains. They weren't looking for one small, wingless figure bundled up in plain wool clothes to be plastered against the side of the building. 

Flying underground was tricky, and the trip from the secret entrance to the base of the King's Tower wasn't insubstantial. Tony could do it in maybe fifteen minutes when he was in his armor. Jan, when she was in top shape, could do it in twenty. Morgan, with only mediocre flying and no willingness to risk pain for speed, would take a take at least a half hour. Which was nearly as long as it would take for Tony to scale the tower. 

It was cutting it closer than he liked, and for a second he thought about finding another window and breaking in, but curiosity was a vice he owned freely and openly. 

Tony's arms were aching by the time he reached the elegantly curved roof of the king's tower, and he spent every other breath wishing for a set of claws that didn't make his fingertips ache. Feeling clumsy with cold, he swung himself under an overhang, locking his knees in the wooden supports and clinging. There were no windows in the tower, only slits for airflow. Breathing as softly as he could, Tony leaned against the wall and pressed his ear to a vent.

At first, there was nothing, only the sound of paper shuffling around, thick parchment crinkling like dried up old hide. Wood creaked, and soft furs rustled as someone moved across them. After a second, the sounds were broken by King Howard saying, "This is all you were able to get? I need more than this, Morgan."

"I did my best," Morgan insisted, accompanied by the scrape of scales over stone. There was a distinct tone of whine in his voice. "I got more than anyone else had!"

A cold breeze found a gap under his tunic, raising goosebumps where it brushed across his spine. Tony shifted awkwardly around, trying to block it without taking his ear away.

"A sorry standard when no one else has tried before. And in a week!" Howard snorted, then growled low in his throat at something Morgan must have done, a snide look or a glare, something out of line. It only lasted a few seconds before Howard's threat died down to a quiet rumble. "Don't try that, kit. You're a few millennia too young to win that one." 

There came an awkward silence, and then a soft, obsequious whine. "I apologize. I only felt upset for having disappointed you," Morgan murmured. Tony could practically see his wings pinned and his head lowered—Morgan was always good at that. "It was difficult work. I was able to get nearly everything you wanted." 

"Nearly." More paper moved. "Enough to start with. Perhaps enough to end this. I see you spoke to the water dragon?" 

"Not for long. He sleeps all day, and does not mind his... circumstances." 

Tony would have given a finger to be able to see in. His knees started to ache from holding on for so long, fingertips going numb in the cold. If he waited too long, climbing down would have been risky, and Morgan would have loved to have Tony out of the way without a fight. 

Howard sighed, the sound echoing like the wind in the mountains. "A worthy attempt, and better made by you than anyone else."

Morgan's urbane, lazy voice turned hard, the sibilant hisses of Ažiliasán suddenly sharp. "Better than some half-breed _runt_ , Uncle?"

Angry heat curled in Tony's chest as his lip curled to bare fangs teeth he didn't have in a hiss, shoulder blades flexing uselessly with no wings to mantle. Old stone scraped under his claws, human hands not strong enough to really make headway, even with magic to help. In that moment, he felt like he could have dragged Morgan to the challenge field, sunk his claws into that slimy hide and left rips that would follow him for centuries. He could wrap his jaws around the tender scales at the join of head and neck and sink in, feeling cold blood freezing on his scales...

But then reality sank in, cooling the heat to a whimper. He'd never drag Morgan to the field. Fights were strictly weapons-free, tooth to tooth and claw to claw. It would be a suicide match, which was exactly what Morgan would want. He was already Howard's favorite. It would save him the trouble of killing Tony later, if something _did_ happen to the king.

"That runt is still the heir. Remember it." Something creaked—wood, most likely, though Tony couldn't think of what it might be. "Where did you put them? You didn't tell anyone?"

"Below, waiting for your attention. And of course I didn't, what do you take me for?"

"I take you for who you are, Morgan. Nothing more. Go now, and tell no one."

Tony stayed attached to the wall, listening as a door closed and his fathered moved about the study, until it became obvious that the entertainment was over for the day. Knowing that something was happening wasn't nearly enough to quell his curiosity. 

He climbed down more slowly than he climbed up, muscles sore from the unaccustomed exertion. Plans to include a spell for increased stamina in the gloves flowed through his mind as he fumbled for a grip, equations and calculations dancing together and falling apart when something didn't quite stick. It was an interesting problem, similar to one he'd worked on before, and it at least kept his mind occupied.

And if the phrase _half-breed runt_ ran through his mind a few times, then at least he was taking it out on the stone, and not by throwing his life away.

* * *

Tony groaned and buried his face into the cushion, back arching away from the deep, probing touches. "No more. Please no more. I'll tell you anything you want."

"Stop whining, you big kit." Jan worked the heel of her palm into the meat of his shoulder, rotating it around. The salve from the healer's stores burned deep in his sore muscles as she worked it in, stinking of mint and hot spices. 

She'd done him the rare service of taking a smaller form for the evening when he'd invited her to his rooms, and then ruined it by demanding he take off his shirt and let her handle his aches. Which was why he was sprawled on his face being beaten blue for his sins.

"I asked you to rub it into the skin, not into the _bone_ ," Tony protested, hissing as her fingers found a particularly sharp point of pain. After he'd finished climbing from his father's tower, he'd felt fine, but the next morning he'd barely been able to walk. Morgan and his little cronies had thought it was the funniest thing ever when he'd limped his way down to the kitchen to get breakfast. 

"You're the one who can't keep from doing something stupid the second he gets a chance. If anyone should be complaining, it's me. I'm still recovering, you know." In the corner of his eye, Jan leaned up and then _dropped_. Something in Tony's joints cracked back into place, making him yelp. Her fists pummeled down his spine, making it creak and stretch as if she were beating his muscles into shape. The attack ended at his hips, which hadn't even been hurting until her thumbs sank in and made something else go _pop_. Then she pulled away and reached for a rough rag next to the jar of salve. "There, stand up."

"No, I think I'll stay here. Where it's safe." Pointedly, in case she was looking, Tony draped himself face-first over the cushions and sank in, silently offering up a prayer to the Wing Mother, goddess of mercy, that Jan was finished with him. Warm, tingling heat curled over the skin of his bare back where the air touched it, and burned even deeper in his muscles and joints. Healers swore it was just herbs and oils without even a drop of magic, but Tony had his doubts. Already he could feel the tension knots unraveling.

Jan snorted and vanished from easy vision, golden silk wrap fluttering behind her. A moment later, he heard the clatter of pottery and metal from the direction she'd moved in. 

When she came back into his line of sight, Jan had two bronze goblets, one in each hand. Balancing on one foot, she nudged his ribs with a bare toe, ankle bracelets jingling like bells. "You're a terrible host. At least move enough for me to sit." 

Grumbling, Tony did as he was told, squirming over until she could slide in beside him, legs tucked over his as she lounged back against a large cushion. The couch was designed exactly the same as the larger ones used by everyone else, only made of elegantly carved wood and thick golden pillows instead of stone and furs. It was more than big enough for both of them, with Rhodey, Happy and Pepper joining in if they liked, but Jan snuggled up against his back anyway. Tony had never gotten to sleep in a pile of dragon kits when he'd been little—it was too dangerous for someone so easily crushed—and sometimes he thought that the others might have made a point of compensating for that.

Using settling in as a weapon, Jan forced Tony to roll over onto his side and handed him one of the drinks. It smelled spicy, but on sipping had an aftertaste of sweet honey and clover. "What is this?" 

"Good for you. Drink up." She patted his hip, then suited words to action, taking a long gulp of her own. Her throat worked, muscles sliding smoothly under delicate skin, the gold collar at her throat glittering with the movement.

Even without her wings, Jan was lovely. The fine muscle tone that allowed her particular sort of flight carried over in her back and chest, giving her an elegance that most dragons never developed on two legs. Golden scales were only barely hinted in the touch of tan around her shoulders and cheeks, dark hair emphasizing the delicate bones in her face that being smaller sometimes hid. 

He took another sip to appease her and then set the goblet aside. With a slow care for still-sore muscles he stretched out, making the blue lines of the crest on his chest seem to glow in the light of the oil lamps. "You know, you already have me shirtless..."

"Because interspecies practically-incest is such a turn on." Jan smiled at him, but the pity in her eyes was hard to miss. If she'd been in her larger shape, her wings would have hunched up—he could see her shoulders tensing under her tunic and wrap. "Look, tell my about why you were crawling around on the walls. Was it a bet?"

"I'm not stupid enough to make that bet. It was curiosity." He collapsed back, going from a deliberate stretch back to a boneless, sore sprawl to stare up at the flat ceiling. Of course he'd known she'd fly over him, but knowing it had been coming didn't stop it from hurting. If he hadn't been a runt, things would have been different. He hated being reminded Morgan was right.

Which brought his thoughts back to her question. "You know Morgan was gone, right?"

Jan tilted her head thoughtfully, foot bouncing on the cushions. "Was he? I thought there's been less of a stench around here."

"Exactly!" Tony nodded, then winced when his neck protested. "So Rhodey and I saw him sneaking back in, and I wanted to see what was up. Except it was _up_." And he hadn't found out anything useful, which ruined the whole thing. Aching muscles for decent gossip was worth it. Not so much without it. "Morgan and my father are planning something. I don't know what, but I'm going to —"

"No." She patted his hip some more. "First you're going to take a day. If the king and Morgan are working together, then they're not going to be in a rush. Recover, then snoop."

"But what if—"

He was cut off by a hard rap on his door. Ignoring the way his shoulders burned, Tony forced himself to sit up, locking his elbows when muscles alone weren't enough. "Come in!"

Jarvis, the elderly human retainer that had followed his mother to Aži-Táriyat, burst in without a trace of his usual politeness. His thinning white hair was out of order, as if he'd been running his hands through it. "Your highness, you must come. Your father—the king—" Jarvis took a shaky breath. "He's been poisoned." 

Distantly, behind a ringing in his ears that wouldn't vanish, Tony heard Jan's sharp intake of breath. Words like _impossible_ and _you're sure?_ rose up through his throat and tangled on his tongue. Jarvis' lips were moving, human language heavy and slow, blurring into nonsense. 

_He's been poisoned._

In a blink everything rushed back to normal speed. Tony's foot knocked against his drink as he sprinted barefoot through the door and down the stairs, taking them two and three at a time with breakneck speed. At one point they branched off into a small passage meant for his mother, curling around the far edge where the king's rooms were. He kept running even past the stitch in his side and the burn in his lungs, taking long leaps when the steps widened too far for an easy stride.

When Tony burst into his father's rooms, he was short of breath, clutching his ribs tightly. Torches lit the main chamber to daylight brightness, making everything sharp and clear the way only living nightmares could be. The king was curled up on his couch, wings sagging and head limp. Next to the elegant quilt of colorfully dyed hides, he looked pale and gray, the royal crest pulsing weakly at his chest. He rolled a dark eye toward the entry, but the way it darted made Tony think it might have been reflex more than awareness. 

Maria was already at his side, tucked in the curve of his forearm with magic weaving around her hands like thread made from springtime rainbows. She was barely the size of one of his claws, age having grown him to gargantuan proportions. Her ladies gathered near the far wall, Sunset and Pepper herding the younger ones into busywork.

Tony crossed the room, keeping his steps light that they only echoed a little on the stone floor, fighting to slow his breathing. The air reeked of illness and magic, acidic herbal smells that made Tony's nose wrinkle. "Mother? What's going on? Jarvis said he's been poisoned..?"

"That's because he was." Maria didn't look up from her work. Already the blanket of light was piled in a heap that covered her lap and trailed out onto the floor, and she kept weaving. As he watched, she reached out and plucked another strand from the air, wrapping it around her wrist before she started yet another row of her work. If he squinted, Tony could see equations worked into it, probabilities captured in magic like bugs in a jar. _Split infinity_ , the work said, in numbers and the language humans liked to use with their strange runes and symbols.

"That's impossible." The small sounds he made set Howard's eyes to rolling, but he soothed when Maria pressed back into the crook of his elbow. There were no healers, no draughts or bleeding—dragons didn't _get_ sick. A dragon healer only ever had to deal with physical wounds, and the occasional stomach upset. Poison simply didn't happen any more than aging did. 

Maria's calm was impenetrable. "Impossible is just a word for things we don't know yet. It was poison—I can feel it in his veins. I was trained for this."

Automatically, Tony nodded, accepting the impossible at her word. One thing he knew better than almost anything was to never question his mother's training. In his whole life, she'd never been wrong about anything she cited for that. She might not have discussed her time learning magic, but the education had been exemplary. If she said it was poison, then it was poison.

And if it was poison, that meant attempted assassination.

Taking a risk, Tony stepped up to Howard's side, making sure to stay in view just in case the king could actually see him. Acrid breath washed over him as Howard turned his head and hissed weakly. The inner lids of his eyes were closed, flight lids protecting the delicate eyeball. It made it look cloudy, blind, though Tony knew from anecdotes that it didn't actually impair vision at all. He got close enough to press a hand to the black scales, feeling them shift like cold glass under his palm. Whatever his mother could feel, it was dead to him, only scales and the slow pump of his father's lungs. 

There'd never been much love lost between them. Howard loved his wife far more than his disappointment of a son, had never bothered to hide how he felt about Tony's failings. But whether they liked it or not, Tony was heir, and the only saving grace they'd had was that he'd probably never be anything else. As long as the king was alive, Tony would stay just a prince, and nothing should have stopped Howard from outliving him by a thousand years or more.

But if Howard died, the only question was how long Tony would last in the challenge field. No one would accept a wingless runt as king, no matter who his father was. 

"Don't worry, father. I'll fix this somehow," he promised in a whisper, not caring that his mother's ladies might hear. Sunset would probably gossip, but not the rest.

Even with the state he was in, Howard snorted in derision. The upper lids of his eyes slipped closed, and for a second Tony's heart stopped until the ribs under his hand moved with a slow intake of air. Tony stayed there, holding his hand pressed to his father's side for the reassuring feeling of those lungs at work.

As distant and he and his father had been since as long as he could remember, he didn't want the crusty old owl-snatcher to die. "What could poison a dragon?" he wondered aloud, watching the slight movement of Howard's scales. 

Maria bowed her head, dark hair falling forward to hide her eyes. "I don't know. I can keep him alive, for a small while, but I never planned..." Her voice wavered, and faded, her hands slowing to a stop at the end of a row. She seemed to gather herself, shoulders lifting, fingers snapping the end of the thread and waving it off into the ether. A net of shimmering light snapped out as she flipped the piece. "Well, there's plans and then there's life, as my teacher once said. Come help me spread this over his shoulders." 

Tony grabbed one edge of the cloth. It burned coldly in his fingers and somehow felt heavy as a mountain while being so light it floated at the least movement. They tossed it up and across, using little breaths of magic to stir the air and carry it where it needed to go. The sheet was big enough to cover Howard from wing joints to the base of his tail in a rippling layer of opalescent color. As he watched, it sank in, taking a place just under his father's scales. Howard grunted and sank down as if pushed against the floor by some great weight. 

He ran his fingers along the spell, feeling it spark under his fingertips. It was beautiful, delicate like frost rimming the edge of a pond. _A net for his soul,_ Tony realized with shock. He'd never seen anything like it—never even _thought_ of anything like it. He wondered if it or something like it could be built into armor, if a soldier could fight in it. "You never showed me this spell."

"It's human magic," Maria replied absently, straightening a corner so it rested flat against the floor. The spell sank in, merging with the stone seamlessly. "You take after your father too much, all fire and ice and mechanical toys. You'd never be able to cast it properly."

Unkind, but probably true. "How long does this give us?" Tony asked instead. "There has to be a cure. How do you cure the impossible?"

"The prophetess!" One of his mother's maids stepped gasped, then scrambled back for the safety behind Pepper when Tony turned to look at her. She was new, fresh enough from the foothills that she was still in a plain wrap of spring green, with only a set of gold earrings for decoration. 

Tony eyed her suspiciously, but gestured her forward. "Yes?"

 

The girl—she looked maybe eighteen at the most, barely old enough to be in service—eased out from behind Pepper, stumbling when she was given a sharp shove. "I've heard rumors—stories and the like, from travelers and peddlers that come through sometimes. They said there's a prophetess over in the east, at the Bay of Silks, a real one. I thought— she does potions and spells, impossible things. Maybe she could..." Her voice trailed off and she huddled in on herself. "Maybe she could help." 

_A prophetess._ Tony bit his lip. That wasn't much help. Half of prophecy, that he knew of, was charlatanism, and the other half was people skills. The Lady of the Seven Hills was supposed to be some sort of prophetess, a priestess of their gods. "Anyone can pretend to read the future, but..." 

But it was all they had. Poisoning a dragon wasn't as unthinkable as he'd thought. Why would a prophetess be?

Maria waved the maid back into the group, eyes lowered to Howard's motionless shoulder. Her shoulders were tense, expression unreadably distant. "Thank you, Natíl, but we don't have time to chase griffins." 

"Do we have anything else?" Tony asked. He took a sharp step back when Maria rounded on him. 

"What would you do? Run across the world on a chance? Leave your father here unguarded?" Maria shook her head, silvering hair reflecting the light from her own magic. "I know what she speaks of and it's a fool's errand. I won't..." Her voice broke and softened, tears gathering at the corner of her eyes. "She steals hearts. I won't have her stealing yours, too."

"Mother." Gently, Tony wrapped her in an embrace. She felt tiny, fragile against him. It was easy for him to forget how much his father meant to her; she'd left her home to be with him, after all. "If I stay here, I'll just be a complication. There might be challenges before father even..." She tensed against his shoulder, and he squeezed her against him. "Let me do this. For father." 

He thought he felt a tear slide down his neck, but when Maria lifted her head there was no sign of it. She kept his hands gripped tight between hers, as if she could hold on to him by force. "All right. For your father."

* * *

Tony checked over his pack for the third time, as if it would have magically developed a sign of something he'd need and had forgotten. Dagger, miniature crossbow, a warm cloak to wrap up in if he needed to sleep. Hunting would be easy enough to keep him going, though he saw that someone had slipped some bread wrapped in parchment into a corner of the pack, along with some thinly sliced dried meat and the spiced cheese that came up from the valleys. The tools of his magical trade were harder to decide on. It was amazing what he'd found could be done with a hammer and a hot enough fire, but...

Rhodey hovered like a broody mother-to-be over her eggs, horns pressed back against his skull. Tony's work cavern was big enough that he had room to stretch out if he wanted, but he hunched as if he were trying to squeeze into a human-sized kitchen. "You should let us come with you. It's dangerous out there." 

"He shouldn't be going at all!" Jan's wings rustled as she stretched them out overhead. "This is suicide. You should be staying here, trying to find the killer."

 _The killer._ That was who everyone talked about, as if his father were already dead. There was no place in anyone's mind for how he might recover. Tony carefully wrapped a small tool set in linen and tucked it into the pack. "That's what I need you two to do while I'm gone."

"We'd be better off with you—"

"And how? Walking?" Rhodey flinched as Tony rounded on him. "You can't fly. The healers said that if you even try, you'll finish ripping that wing wide open. That's _if_ the wind didn't rip your wings right off. I'm smaller, I'm faster, and I can get through the passes."

Jan snorted and lowered her golden head, teeth bared aggressively. " _If_ you don't get dashed against the rocks. You should stay here where it's safe."

"If my father dies, or if I get too close to whoever did this, they won't even wait until the ashes are spread before Challenging me. I'd be a smear on the rocks, and it'll be years before it's sorted out. I'm a liability." Much as he hated admitting it, Tony had to face the truth—no would-be assassin was going let Tony find him without a Challenge, and if it came down to that the whole kingdom would fall apart. 

Assuming it wasn't just someone who liked Morgan's anti-human ideas. Inheritance didn't come up often in lifespans that were counted by centuries, but most people accepted Morgan as the next in line after Tony. He was the right line, the only crested kit from the king's clutch-brother, and popular with the younger set, the ones who didn't like that their parents had ceded the rest of the world. They didn't understand how fast humans bred, how damned _many_ of them there were, how willing they were to throw their short lives away. Tony had heard all of that as a kit, listening to his parents discuss the war, learning to understand how it had dragged out for so long. 

If Tony were dead from anything but a Throne Challenge and Howard dying, that would put Morgan practically in charge. He might even just take over before it was official. No human would be safe, not even the queen. Morgan had never tried to hide how much he hated them. His friends would be more than happy to rid Aži-Táriyat of every last trace of humans, and then probably move on to the Seven Hills. The whole reason humans were such a threat was that there were so damned many, and they bred fast. If Morgan provoked a full-scale attack...

Tony shuddered to think of the consequences. 

Claws scraped over rock as Jan settled back, watching him uncertainly. "They're going to call you a coward," she finally said, tucking her head down. "People will say you ran away."

"Let them say whatever they want." Tony flipped the top closed on his pack, locking it with a small turn of magic that would keep the weather out while he flew. It was as filled as it was ever going to get. He'd take some money, and if he needed something he'd try to trade with the humans. There were bound to be a few on the way. 

Armor next, quilted padding that kept it from rubbing him raw an ugly but necessary first layer. The breastplate went over his shoulders and latched at the sides, the medallion that powered it locking in with a soft _click_. He'd put the armor on so many times that his hands moved without thought, metal latches flipping with oiled precision. He finished the last one and stood up straight, shrugging the bag over his shoulder. "I'm just the runt prince, remember?"

* * *

"He's going for help. Stop him."

"Yes, right away."


	3. Chapter 3

Everything in the temple was shades of black and white, the only colors those dedicated to the bright faces of the seven gods. Those were vivid splashes of color against the harsh monotone, golden Justice and orange Love, the vivid indigo of Magic. There was another temple, equally grand and buried beneath the first that only a few knew of, where the colors were reversed—a place to keep the dark faces of the gods at bay, to please and amuse them into ignoring humanity. 

The Maria of the Seven Hills curled up on her cushioned throne and stared out the glazed window at the cold rain that poured down outside, dark hair piled under her crown in an array of curls, silvered mirror in her lap. She ran her fingers across the mirror, dark now, its duty served well. There were few enough servants that were so loyal, and she'd learned to treasure them since she'd wrested power back from the army at a tender fifteen years. Absolute power was little more than a pretty phrase when one depended on others. 

Fortunately, she'd learn to do without that support. "So Legati Steve, the Dragon Killer, has abandoned us."

Samuel bowed his head with the exact minimum of politeness that was acceptable. Dust from travel still caked his sandals, but he held himself tall and proud. "I advised you to tell him. He would have been a good ally. Instead—"

The Maria cut him off with a sharp gesture. "He is a soldier. What does he know of politics?"

"But you're still worried about him." 

She ground her teeth against the truth and forced a small laugh. "About my plans? No. Worried about losing a good leader? Yes, and I freely admit it. Winter already closes its jaws around us. In the mountains, it will be far, far worse." 

The north would be cold, she knew, the Neshell Mountains full of snow and ice and dangers that humans had no hope against. Dragon territory. Undisputed, because they were the only ones able to call it home. The legati would face hard travel before he reached the nest. 

Samuel jerked, looking her in the eye for a second before he remembered himself and looked away again. "You would leave him to die? Let me take a team with a good mage, before the weather worsens."

"No, Samuel." The Maria leaned forward, her black toga falling to drape across her knees. "No, I will not throw lives away for the sake of one man. If anyone could survive the mountains, it will be him. He will be safe enough, and by the time he reaches Aži-Táriyat either our plans will be finished or ruined and it will be moot. He'll have made a fool of himself, and perhaps need reprimand, but no harm will be done."

Muscles moved in Samuel's jaw as he ground his teeth together. "We do nothing, then."

"It is all we can do. You are dismissed."

Her advisor stalked away, shoulders back and tight, sandals slapping the floor, obviously angry at her decision. That was good. Anger could be put into harness like a mule in the fields, as long as she kept a close eye on it. He might collect a small party of his own people, but they would never succeed, and she doubted they would risk themselves too greatly for a lost cause. 

Lifting the mirror, she breathed onto it to fog the surface over, then quickly sketched a rune onto it. The rune glowed black and sank in below the glass, pulsing. Then it melted, spreading out until the whole mirror was a dark pool that slowly coalesced into a picture, made fuzzy by the presence of magic too much like her own. It gave her a glimpse of a dragon wing and a net made of light, a dark eye gone unfocused in pain. The eyes she was borrowing turned and bobbed, focusing on a human woman in dragon finery, spells she no longer had a right to playing in her hands.

The Maria's fists clenched in the folds of her gown. The past was a bitter draught, and if there was no changing it, she refused to let it go. If _that bastard_ of a dragon had only _listened_ , if _she_ had only valued her duty...

But no, there was no time to cuddle resentment to her breast. Thoughts like that didn't solve the problem that was the rogue Legati. The chance that he would reach Aži-Táriyat was small, but not nonexistent, and that was too much to be allowed. The Maria wiped her hand over the glass, turning it back to simple silver, and reached out to tug a bell. 

Immediately a servant appeared, bowing low. "My lady?"

"Go find Lady Victoria and tell her I wish to meet with her over dinner, regarding her songbirds. And tell the guards that Adviser Samuel is not to leave the city without first informing me."

"Yes, my lady." 

She'd sent her eyes. Now she needed to send her hands.

* * *

Once Steve got past the foothills, the winds were wicked, and the snow had already piled up ankle-deep. He struggled onward as fast as he could, taking shelter when the wind was too much and keeping low the rest of the time. His map said that the land route to Aži-Táriyat was nearly a straight shot north, only two day's travel as the dragon flew. With the mountainous terrain, Steve estimated a week.

Add in the weather, and Steve was starting to think he'd get there just in time for the spring thaw.

He couldn't imagine a lady doing what he was, scrapping his way through the mountains, trading time for survival. But he'd begun to suspect that however she presented herself, Lady Natalia was no lady, and Bucky had gotten himself involved in something big. There'd been no sign of them, though by then he'd thought for sure he would have found a camp, or even a piece of discarded refuse. A _footprint_. But there was nothing, as if they'd just climbed up into the clouds and vanished. 

It was another one of those times when the wind kicked up snow until it was practically a blizzard, and ice crystals were forming on Steve's lashes. The pass he was trapped in was treacherous, a slope of loose boulders on one side and a sharp drop in to forested nowhere on the other. The trail was wide enough for a dragon, and considering where he was it was probably meant for a dragon, which at least gave him plenty of room for safety's sake. He hunkered down in the leeward side of a rock and pulled his cape over his head to make a small pocket of warmth.

The roar of the wind took an odd note, like a dragon's war cry. Steve went tense at the sound, straining to listen. It came again, closer, mixed in with the crackle of fire. 

_Not the wind._

He hurled himself away from the rock, red boots skidding on icy ground as he scrambled for better cover. Overhead the dragon screamed again, cutting through the air in a sharp curve and rising up again, buffeted left and right by the winds. Something small and man-shaped hurtled around it, shooting blasts of pale blue fire. 

Steve's steps slowed as realized _he_ wasn't the dragon's target. The two circled each other, fighting the winds to land blows. The dragon was a common one, with its wings attached to its forearms rather than as their own unique limbs, dark emerald hide standing out against the cloud-cover. The mage—it had to be a mage, no one else could fly like that—was making a good show of the fight, landing blow after blow, until the dragon rose directly above him and then _fell_. 

The mage rolled to get out of the way, but the winds worked against him, pushing him too far and dashing him up against a rocky ledge. He tumbled to the ground, landing in a pile of red-enameled armor, mask knocked completely loose. The dragon recovered from its fall and swooped down to a heavy landing. 

Steve acted without thinking, throwing himself back down the slope so quickly that it was more a slide than a run, tumbling a few times. He yanked his round shield off his shoulders, knocking loose his travel pack and helmet, and getting a gash from an over-sharp rock in the process. He got there just in time, [throwing himself over the fallen mage and lifting his shield to take a blast of dragon fire](http://i1169.photobucket.com/albums/r514/phoenixmetaphor/rbb/rbb_color_1300x1000.jpg). Pale light flashed under Steve's nose as the mage took advantage of the cover to take a shot of his own, the blow glancing off the dragon's shoulder. Roaring, it lifted off, diving over the side and rising in an unsteady spiral.

"My hero," the mage panted in an odd accent, skin pasty from cold and exertion. Blood dripped down his temple and oozed out of the joins of his armor at the hip to stain the snow. "Got any other tricks before she comes back?"

Steve pushed to his feet, yanking the mage up with him. Wind nearly knocked him off his feet again, but he braced himself against the rocks and managed to hold steady. He scooped up his helmet and his pack, along with what was left of the armor, just in case. Another war cry sounded from the clouds. "Can you run?"

"Not much choice, is there?" 

Together, they scrambled up the pass. It was only a faint incline, but it worked against him, making Steve's thighs ache and burn, tripping him up with the same slick ice that had helped him go down it so fast. Snow flung itself into Steve's eyes, making them sting, and the wind tried to knock him off his feet. The mage was surprisingly fast for a man in armor, keeping up handily. When Steve's balance wavered, he grabbed Steve's arm to keep him upright. 

Green flashed in the clouds, scales glittering as the dragon stooped. Steve skidded to a stop and braced himself against the wind, hurling his shield with every ounce of strength he had. It flew with the wind, ricocheting off a boulder and angling upward into the dragon's path. A gust of wind blew it off course, flipping the edge directly into the dragon's eye instead of its neck. 

The beast screamed, blood running down its jaw, head whipping back in agony. It didn't have time to pull up, crashing into the stone with force that made the whole cliff-side buckle. Something snapped with a crack like a tree branch snapping, and the dragon tumbled to a stop, not moving. 

Metal footsteps crunched over the ice as the mage came up behind Steve. " _You killed her,_ " he breathed in an odd, musical language that seemed to flow straight from his lips to Steve's mind. Somehow he was even paler than before, shock trumping blood loss. "You..."

"It was going to kill us first." Steve searched the ground, and let out a relieved sound when he spotted the red enamel on his shield embedded in the snow nearby. He crawled over the rocks that had been thrown up by the crash, working his way over them until he could pull the shield from the rubble. It was scratched and dirty, faintly charred, but hadn't taken any dents from the fight. 

When he looked up, the mage was crouched by the dragon's head, touching its bloody cheek. Steve rolled his eyes and deliberately knocked his shield against a rock to make him look up. "Don't tell me you're sorry for it?"

" _Her_ ," the mage corrected sharply, turning his head to snarl in Steve's direction. The wound on his temple had started to clot, blood turning as black as his goatee. "And of course I feel sorry for her. She was just a— a stupid _kit_. She didn't have to die."

"You're welcome," Steve replied dryly. "Since you're so concerned about the dragon, maybe you can tell me why _she_ was trying to kill you?"

"I don't know." Whatever fire had driven the mage seemed to drain out. He stepped a few feet back and dropped to the ground on the leeward side of the corpse. "I don't—Naia was young. Too eager to prove herself, but not... I don't know why she'd have done this."

Pity curled in Steve's chest, an uncomfortably itchy knot. He didn't want to feel sorry for a dragon. They were the enemy, monsters that fell out of the sky and carried off good soldiers to drop from on high. If he started to think about them as people who could be young and occasionally stupid, he'd never be able to look one in the eye on the battle field again without wondering if it was actually a killer or just a child out there to prove a point. 

"There's a reason for everything," he finally said, slipping down his rock. Behind the dragon the wind was practically nothing. It was amazing that the beast—that _Naia_ could have flown at all in it. "I'm not sorry I killed her, because she was going to kill us. But I'm sorry I had to. You knew her?" 

"Only distantly. She preferred other people for her company." The mage seemed to draw himself up, more a motion in his eyes and shoulders than anything else. "My name's Tony."

Steve looked him up and down, evaluating. He didn't look like a Tony. He looked more like a butcher's shop special, actually. Even though the head wound was clotting, it looked terrible, and there might be damage to his brains if he'd hit the cliff wrong in his first fall. 

The armor was nothing he'd ever seen before, but the crest in the center of the breastplate tugged at the edges of his memory. Whenever he'd seen it, it couldn't have been more than a glimpse. The runes that lined the metal were the same way, hauntingly familiar like a dream he'd forgotten. 

He shook his head to clear the odd, uncomfortable fog. "I'm Steve. What's a mage doing running from dragons up in the mountains during winter?" And what was a human mage doing calling them by _name_? Steve had heard that dragons kept humans as pets and slaves; it was one of the things they warned young soldiers about. Dragons had carried off a Maria once, the event that started the latest round of an endless war, when she'd gotten too friendly with one and it decided it wanted her for a toy. There'd be no saving a soldier who made the same mistake. 

But why would a dragon let a human learn magic, much less make such elaborate armor? It didn't make any sense.

"Coming down out of them. What's a Hill-born soldier doing in the mountains at all?" Tony flicked his fingers at Steve, pointing at his winged helm and distinctive armor. "Aren't you supposed to be down guarding a border somewhere?"

Lies danced on the tip of Steve's tongue uncomfortably. He avoided them as best as he could. "I'm looking for my friend. He and a lady came this way—I was following their tracks for a while. I was hoping to find them before they were in danger."

Tony shook his head. "Well, if they came this way, they're either buried under snow or you've come the wrong way. There's no one between here and Aži-Táriyat. Believe me, I just flew it."

Cold bit through Steve's armor to strike his heart. "Could they have found somewhere to hole up, out of the weather?" he asked hopefully, only to have it dashed when Tony shook his head. 

"There's nowhere to do it. About a mile up it all turns to cliffs. You would have had to turn back until the wind let up anyway."

Useless then. He'd wasted days of hiking for nothing. Bucky and Lady Natasha could have been anywhere; they might have cut along to the west and found the coast, or gone east to the people up north who made their homes out of ice. Any clues he might have found would be long gone by now. Steve cursed them soundly, falling back against his rock.

For want of anything else to say, Steve asked, "What about you? You said you're leaving the mountains?"

A slow nod. "Yes. My—" Suspicion crossed his eyes, but Tony shook his body as if physically ridding himself of it. "King Howard has been poisoned. I'm going to the Bay of Silks to find out how, and if there's a cure."

Steve rested his arms on his knees and stared across the space between them. Pieces fell into place, a little too well, churning his stomach. He remembered Lady Natasha's quiet, how she was always there, unobtrusive and observant. Bucky's secret orders that Steve knew about and had turned a blind eye to, trusting his friend's judgment more than the Maria's.

And now they'd gone north, just in time for the king of the dragons to be poisoned. It was too much to be a coincidence. _Scroll guide you Bucky, what have you gotten yourself into now?_

"You're sure there's no way through?" It was a hopeless question but one that needed to be asked, and Tony's smile said that he knew it. 

"Not unless you can fly." 

Steve closed his eyes, forehead dropping to his crossed arms. Wind tickled the back of his neck, lighter than it had been. Maybe in an hour or two, it would die down enough for him to start the long trip back down the slope.

 _And then what?_ Return to Vítahil and demand that the Maria tell him what she'd done? What Bucky's orders had been? War didn't justify everything, and the war had already lost its own justification. It was one thing to play killing games on the field, with men who knew what they'd signed up for and were playing games of their own, but poisoning someone who'd withdrawn from battle—even a dragon—was dishonorable, a coward's move. 

He could object, and essentially throw himself in prison. Sam would suffer; the Maria would think that he'd been the one to tell Steve of the plot. Anyone he'd been friends with would come under scrutiny, his legion would be handed to a commander who wouldn't think of them as anything but pawns in a game. It would be a noble sacrifice that would solve nothing. 

If the dragon king died of foul play, they wouldn't stop at the border. 

"You're going to see the Priestess, then?" he heard himself say, looking up. The wind had died enough that it carried. "The Priestess of the Mirrors."

"I was told she's a..." Tony hesitated, looking confused. "A teller of the future? I don't think I know the word in your language." 

That sounded like a priestess to Steve, but he nodded anyway. "That's her. She knows everything. Even the Maria listens when she speaks, and they say that the gods share their secrets with her." 

"Sure." Tony seemed skeptical, but it didn't matter if he believed or not—he obviously believed enough to be making the pilgrimage. Or maybe he was just desperate enough to try anything. If the dragon king were really dying...

Steve braced himself. "If you're going to the Bay, take me with you. Please." 

Tony laughed, a hollow sound that made the wind seem warm and inviting. "Why should I do that?" he demanded. "I don't need some Hill-born soldier slowing me down."

"Do you really think that a Priestess of the Seven Hills is going to welcome a dragon-lover to her temple?" Tony winced, and Steve grabbed the opening. "If my friend didn't come this way, then I need to know which way he did go. And if you have dragons chasing you, then you could use someone at your back." 

"They aren't chasing me—" 

"Then what do you call that?" Steve jerked his fist at the corpse behind them. Its eyes had fogged over with death, and ice was gathering on her horns. "A bet gone wrong? A prank? Someone wants to stop you, and they're willing to kill to do it."

Darkness gathered around Tony like a cloak, heavy with grief. He bowed his head, shoulders slumping. "You're right."

"Then you'll let me come with you?" 

The hollow sound of the wind filled the silence between them, a brief flash of blown snow making the distance between them seem vast. Finally, Tony looked up and nodded. "I'll let you come with me." The corner of his mouth lifted in a smile. "And I won't even ask the real reason why you want to." 

Steve shrugged. He should have known that such a thin excuse wouldn't pass muster, but he couldn't tell him what he suspected. If he did and Bucky were caught, the beasts wouldn't be kind to an assassin. Given a choice between the dragon king and his best friend, Bucky would always win, even if he ended up having to fight a siege at Vítahil because of it. "If we're going to travel together, you'd better come here and let me bandage your wounds."

* * *

"... Ride on warm winds to the top of the clouds..."

Steve turned his attention to his pack and tried not to listen to the prayers, feeling awkward. The wind had died, taking most of the sunlight with it, but Tony had knelt by the dragon's body to pray. It was in the same language he'd used before, the syllables hissing and musical, and nothing Steve should have been able to understand as well as he did.

When the prayer was finished, Tony stood, the armor creaking with the faint, slick sound of well-oiled joints and leather. He'd fit his faceplate back onto the helmet after Steve had bandaged his head. It made him seem inhuman, distant. 

Which, Steve thought wryly, was probably the point.

"There's enough of the day left to make it south to the foothills if we hurry," Tony decided, gathering up his travel pack and attaching it to his shoulders. Rather than a simple set of straps, it actually had locking hooks that kept it from shifting around. "If we go east, we'll be stuck in the mountains all night. You don't want to be up here when the sun goes down. You'll freeze." 

Biting back a comment about how he'd made it so far without dying, Steve turned his eye to the setting sun and estimated how close it was to the horizon. An hour, maybe. Less as they traveled, since the lower they went the faster the evening would come. "Are you sure? It's a long hike. I needed two days to get this far." 

"Who's hiking?" Tony waved Steve over, holding out his armored arm with an impatient gesture. Blue eyes peeked out at him from behind the glazed eye-holes of the faceplate. "We'll fly."

Uncertain but knowing that if he objected he'd be abandoned for slowing Tony down, Steve stepped up and let Tony wrap his arm around Steve's waist. The metal was surprisingly warm for having been exposed to the weather. There was something like a handhold on Tony's shoulder, where the plates fit together loosely to allow for a full range of motion, and Steve found that if he braced his foot atop Tony's he could manage to keep from dangling like a sack of turnips. 

"Ready?" Without waiting for a reply, Tony triggered whatever magic made him fly. Blue fire flared in the soles of his boots and the ground fell away. Steve's stomach stayed with it,. The world spun disturbingly for a second, white snow and gray sky blurring together into a gut-churning mix. Acid burned the back of his throat until he clenched his eyes shut, which at least kept the ground from making it worse. Pain built between his eyes, a tightness in his head that let loose with a loud and sudden _crack like his brains had suddenly shattered._

Over the sound of the wind, he heard the bastard holding him laugh.

The sudden rise settled down, bumps fading though the wind still pushed them from side to side. When Steve felt like he wasn't going to risk losing his dinner, he cracked his eyes open. Ice nearly crusted them shut where the cold bit into him, and the pressure of the wind stung his eyes like the ice storms of the far north. Below them was a blanket of soft-looking gold and pink, an endless sheet of unspun wool dyed by the sun into fantastic colors. Occasionally they broke to show the mountains and forest below, sharp flashes of deep emerald and slate gray. 

_This must be what it's like for a dragon._ A sudden envy of those with wings clenched his stomach. To see this every day, to _own_ the sky... No wonder Tony had bespelled his armor into flying. 

Steve kept his eyes open for as long as he could, drinking it in, until his eyeballs felt like sandpaper and he couldn't see for the tears. The precious few glimpses he'd stolen settled deep into his soul, where they'd keep.

The flight took nearly the entire hour that Tony had estimated, which was still impressive compared to the two days Steve had spent climbing up and down the rocky mountainside to achieve the same distance. They landed just after the sun had set, while the stars were yet to finish coming out and the ground had been dyed purple rather than black. The moons had risen in different phases of crescent, giving just enough light to cast shadows. 

When they touched down, Tony's arm released from his waist. Steve pried his fingers free from the shoulder plate and stepped aside. His knees nearly gave out on him when he tried to stand on his own, but he locked them and managed to retain some composure through his ringing ears. 

Tony's helmet tilted up as if he were watching the stars start to come out from behind the sun's skirts as she hid away from the moons for the night. "We should camp. There's a flight of dragons on the border that we can take shelter with, but I'm not sure that's such a good idea, all things considered. There's people there that aren't too fond of me."

"All it would take is one working for your enemies," Steve agreed, running his fingers through his hair. While his hands had stayed warm by clinging to the armor, ice had frozen against his scalp in spite of his helmet. It was starting to crackle free, the warmer temperatures of the foothills melting it slowly. The whole process itched, making Steve wish for a fire-warmed towel, or maybe just a fire. "We can take shelter with my people. They won't ask questions, and it'll be a roof over our heads for the night."

Behind the faceplate, he could almost _picture_ Tony's eyebrows lifting. "Your people?" 

Steve flushed. "I'm a soldier, aren't I? Where do you think I came from?" 

"I'd wondered." The helmet tilted, a considering look, and it struck Steve that he'd never seen anyone with such expressive body language. _It must be having lived with dragons,_ he reasoned. Certainly it was becoming more and more obvious that Tony had probably never spent much time among _people_. 

"Alright, we'll do it that way. Do us both a favor and keep our reasons to yourself, though." Tony nodded and started stripping off his armor, starting with the arm plates. They dropped with surprisingly quiet sounds, as if they were hardened leather rather than beaten metal. The breastplate and padding under it came next, showing a jerkin of richly brocaded dark fabric, cut deep across the chest, practically split down to the groin, kept from being completely useless by a flimsy shirt of flimsy gold cloth that shone even with so little light. Both pieces of clothing were buckled into leather trousers that then folded into soft knee-high boots that looked like they'd been made primarily to fit under the armor. 

Realizing he was staring, Steve cleared his throat and looked away. "Don't worry. I wouldn't dream of gossiping." He'd have to tell the Maria when he reported back. _If_ he reported back. Desertion was one of the worst of crimes a soldier could commit to his command, a betrayal of faith and vows, but Steve wondered if it was less honorable than serving against his conscience. 

Tony attached a dagger and some sort of other weapon to his belt, folded the surprisingly compact armor into his bag, and then stood. "Lead the way to the enemy," he intoned.

Rolling his eyes, Steve checked the landmarks and then set off slightly to the east. They'd landed relatively close, but relatively compared to flying and walking were two different things—from the crest of the nearest hill he could barely make out the lights of the garrison, dimmed for having been mostly emptied, but still there. It wasn't helped that Steve's knees were still wobbly and soft, his head aching oddly from the combination of wind and air changes. 

While he'd been gone, the ground had acquired a thin dusting of snow that would only get thicker as the winter sank in its fangs. They slid and climbed their way down the rest of the way, feet skidding on iced rocks. For all that, they made good speed. As soon as they were in sight of the guard, Steve called out, so no one got jumpy and tried shooting crossbow bolts into shadows. "We're coming in!"

The guard on duty lifted her lantern, squinting into the night. Her eyes widened comically when Steve waved at her. She pushed back the hood on her cloak, revealing a full head of shining gold hair and a familiar face. "Steve? What are you—I thought you were in Vítahil!"

"Less true than rumors would have it, Carol." Steve smiled back and stepped into the circle of light cast by the lantern. Tony followed him, staying just outside the light. "We had two people missing from the caravan. I was searching for them. You haven't seen Bucky, have you?" 

Carol shook her head, mouth curving in a grimace. "No, sir, it's just us here. And the dragons." Almost as if the word itself had directed her attention that way, she turned her head to inspect Tony. "You found someone out there?"

"He's... A friend." Steve shook his head and waved Tony forward. "He'll be staying with me tonight, and we're setting out again tomorrow to follow the trail. My presence doesn't change the chain of command, or any of your orders."

She didn't seem to like it, but Carol nodded and stepped back against the post. "Yes, sir." 

Steve nodded to her and waved Tony through the gate. He hadn't been in the camp during winter since his first deployment, ten years before. He'd been fifteen, scrawny as a young tree and desperate to prove that he could make it as a soldier. That had been a particularly mild winter, which might have been the only reason he hadn't been found half-frozen with icicles hanging from him after every turn at guard duty. Cold had especially bothered him when he was young and hadn't had enough meat on his bones to keep him warm. He'd met Bucky that winter; they'd spent it playing dice for chores and begging the older soldiers for lessons.

Nothing had really changed since then; there was the same hush that came when people were in a nearly abandoned place, the lingering scent of smoke from the few fires that remained and the soft murmur of voices that should have been asleep but were taking advantage of the more lax rules to stay up and share some companionship. He could smell the bite of winter still on its way, sharp and bitter, but not yet _there_. It would be soon enough, though, and then things would close up even more as the last holdouts found cabin-mates. There was nothing like a snowstorm to make sharing a bunk seem like a brilliant choice.

Tony trailed after him quietly, taking in the garrison with a quiet fascination that made Steve worry for a second about giving away secrets to a man who could very well take them back to the enemy. Then he mentally kicked himself. Dragons would have flown over daily when the war was alive in spring; sometimes they even attacked, though the ceramic roofing tiles made flames an exercise in futility. There was nothing Tony could have told them that would make a difference. 

They managed to get through the camp with only a few encounters, soldiers staring at Tony in his strange clothing, whispering and keeping a safe distance. Steve took them on a side jaunt to the kitchen for two bowls of warm stew, some fresh bread, water and an amphora of wine before they cut back across the frost-crusted streets to his lodgings. It was as cold inside as out, but there was still a collection of dry wood and tinder next to the stove that Steve immediately started putting to use.

"Just a soldier, huh?" Tony commented, seemingly idly, and tucked his bag into a corner. His eyes darted everywhere, just as fascinated by Steve's lodgings as he had been the rest of the camp.

"I never said 'just'." The tinder caught easily, needing only a few attempts with his flint. Steve nursed it into a flame, practice letting him put only half of his attention to the job. "My rank doesn't matter. I'm still looking for my friend, and I still want to help you."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Tony snort, shaking his head like a horse that getting rid of a particularly annoying fly. "I just find myself wondering why a Legati would be searching for a lost soldier himself, instead of sending a party out." 

"Because this one is my friend, and I think he's less lost than he is missing." A few more pieces of wood and the fire finally caught properly, taking hold with a decent sized flame. Steve put a few larger pieces on top, careful not to smother it. "Go ahead and eat. They do good food here, for army fare." 

Tony gingerly took one of the stools, eying the bowl of stew uncertainly. "Thank you." 

"It's not poisoned, you know." Leading by example, Steve sat down and took a spoonful from his own bowl. It was still warm, thick with the spices the cooks used to liven up a dull ritual of meals, and warmed him nicely. "See?" 

That got him a smile. Tony took his own mouthful, holding the spoon like it was made out of something fragile. "I know. It's just... Different flavors. Milder." 

Steve watched Tony eat with half of his attention, trying unsuccessfully not to stare. Suspicions about his new traveling companion kept bubbling to the surface, and the sliding back down when the cool force of logic prevailed. Nothing added up quite right, two similar puzzles that had been all mixed in together and were impossible to separate out of hand. Working out the truth was going to take more time and patience than Steve had at hand.

Mages weren't common to meet. Not many people had the simultaneous aptitude for learning and the talent for magic that it took to become one. Some managed to become minor charlatans, or wise men and women of their villages, but maybe one in thousands actually rose to the final rank after decades of study. The only ones who were ever certain were the Marias, each and every one a master of the art from childhood, talent overcoming youth with consistency that was agreed by all to be a gift from the gods. 

Tony was young, very young, for someone with the sort of power that could make a suit of armor fly. He looked to be Steve's age, maybe a little older. The firelight caught on no silver in his hair or beard, and the wrinkles at his eyes and mouth weren't deep. A dragon could have looked that young and had centuries to become proficient in magic, but if he were a dragon why had he fought the way he had, in human form? Why bother with armor when he could have scales and wings? It didn't make sense.

One thing that was certain, Tony was handsome. It hadn't been as obvious when they'd landed, with only faint moonlight and twilight shadows. With lanterns and firelight he was striking, sharp cheekbones and a well-groomed beard making his face seem lean without being pinched, long fingers that were thick with calluses but still sporting scrubbed and trim nails. If the quality of his clothing hadn't been enough of a clue, the state of his person confirmed it: he was no common man. Maybe a noble, or some sort of priest—the prayers came to mind—but not someone who was used to hard labor for his keep. 

Looking at those hands made Steve's mouth go dry. He didn't even know what species Tony was, but it was all too easy to picture his long fingers spread out across Steve's skin, the sharp contrast of golden tan next to winter-pale. Rumors said that one of the reasons dragons sometimes stole humans was for concubines, that the king kept one he'd snatched up in the middle of the night, just like the Maria had been, that they'd even produced a child. They were hushed rumors, since the very existence of them sparked rage in the Maria, but they'd gone on as long as Steve could remember. 

Unlike others of his rank, Steve had a personal policy of not sleeping with his soldiers. Since for the spring, summer and fall months nearly the only people he saw were his soldiers, that made for long dry spells. Visits from Legati Sharon only came once in a great while, when necessity brought them together, and the young men and women in the village were too soft for his tastes.

But a mage—a _dragon_ , maybe... That wouldn't be soft at all.

* * *

Steve was staring at him.

He had the grace not to be obvious about it. When Tony moved, Steve's head would turn slightly to track him, and his eyes cut across the table often as if to make sure Tony hadn't vanished. A small thing, though, and subtle enough that they'd nearly finished eating before Tony was certain enough of it to be definitive in his thoughts. Humans were difficult to read; they had no crown of horns, no wings or tail to broadcast their emotions when language fell short. Instead their entire expression seemed to be focused on the face, especially the eyes and mouth, with only a little bit reflected in their hands and shoulders. Tony thought that, if he put effort into it, he might be able to read his temporary companion as well as he did one of his friends. 

It was a shame they didn't have time. 

It wasn't as if Tony had never seen a human-shape before, or even a handsome one. Rhodey, certainly, was as fine-looking on two legs as four, and Jan lacked nothing in either shape. But they weren't as comfortable in skin as they were in scales, and it showed. There was a certain compact restraint, an elegance of familiarity that they lacked and Steve had in abundance. Every move and stretch, even something as plain as walking, was accomplished with the minimum of effort and a poise that drew the eye to the flow of muscles and sinew into one graceful whole. If ever a dragon truly mastered human form, Tony thought, Steve would be the result.

Tony scraped the bottom of his bowl clean with a piece of the thick, plain bread he'd been given. It had no real spice to it, no heat that seemed to be part of every other dish at home. The food, like the building and people, was strangely simple and dull. Even servants wore jewelry of gold and silver in Aži-Táriyat, and all but the rudest of storage closets bore some sort of decoration. Here it was as if the light had been sucked out of everything, leaving utility without joy.

He wondered if it had to do with their short lives, that beauty became so secondary to function rather than walking hand in hand. 

Steve broke the silence with a cough, looking away to the fire to disguise that his eyes had been on Tony for a full ten minutes. "I can tell that you're a mage, and not a slave, so... You're a dragon, aren't you? Why didn't you change shape when the— when Naia attacked you? And why do you use armor to fly instead of your wings?" 

Tension wrapped around Tony's shoulders, turning them to stone. At least Steve wasn't an idiot, but it would have been nice if he hadn't jumped to that conclusion quite so quickly. "I have my reasons," he answered as calmly as he could, tucking the last bite of bread in his mouth and chewing. "Just like I imagine you have reasons for not telling that guard what I am. I _am_ passing through the Seven Hills. For all you know I could be a spy." 

"Nothing in the winter treaties say a lone traveler can't cross the border, and I suspect that applies even more when you're escorted with such a grave duty." Steve leaned forward, crossing his arms on the table. The look in his eyes made Tony feel like a goat in one of the valleys as a hungry dragon passed overhead. "Besides, you don't look very much like a spy to me. Spies are supposed to be more plain, to blend in. You never would."

"And I thought Legati were hard-faced old men who fight from the dinner table rather than the field. Neither of us seem to fit the mold." The grain of the wood was simple under Tony's fingertips. He traced it, watching Steve behind the cover of his lashes. 

No one had ever looked at him like that before. He'd seen it in others, but not at _him_. For everyone in Aži-Táriyat, he was either too human or too dragon. But Steve didn't seem to care _what_ he was—or at least, he didn't mind the dragon part. 

"Are you admitting to being a spy?" A casual stretch of Steve's body bumped their legs together under the table, calves sliding together. That they were both wearing leather didn't stop an electric jolt from sizzling up Tony's spine.

The stools didn't make for easy slouching, but Tony endeavored to do his best, hooking their ankles together. "Did I? I suppose that means you'll have to keep a close eye on me then. You never know what secrets I might steal."

"A wise man wouldn't let you out of his sight." Another rub of their legs. Steve's eyes were sharp on his, the blue iris made darker by some trick of the light. Slowly, deliberately, Steve licked his lips, and none of Tony's magic could have stopped his eyes from tracking the movement. 

"Are you a wise man?" he asked, pretending that it was the warmth from the fire that heated his cheeks. 

"That depends on who you ask. For example, you've probably noticed there's only one bed," Steve said slowly, voice low and persuasive. "A wise man would offer it to you, and then sleep next to it on the floor to keep you trapped in one place during the night." An offer, and a chance to refuse. 

A new sort of tension curled in Tony's stomach, a flutter of anticipation and desire, heating him like the fire couldn't. It was an odd feeling, rushing through his veins to make his head light, like the first time he'd leapt off the edge of a cliff and trusted his magic to catch him, half hoping the whole time that wings would instead. 

"Since I'm no spy, I would hate to put you out of your bed," Tony answered, with a bravado that at least sounded real in his own ears. "It looks large enough to share." 

Steve leaned across the table, rising from his stool. "Guest's choice, of course." 

When it came, the touch of Steve's lips was more of a shock than Tony thought it would be. Kissing was easy, _simple_ , just a touch of lips. He'd kissed Jan once when he was younger, and that had been good right up until she wrinkled her nose and muttered something about skin. But where Jan's kisses were nice, Steve's were electric. They stole the breath from Tony's lungs with just a soft slide of mouths and the sharp scrape of a day without a razor. 

Tony groaned, sliding his fingers through Steve's hair and half-rising from his stool. Somehow they found their way together around the edge of the table. Blue enameled scale mail scraped against Tony's knuckles as he pushed it out of the way, finding smooth muscle underneath. Step by step they staggered back to the bed together, somehow managing to avoid tripping or stepping on one another's toes. 

The wooden edge of the bed bumped the back of Tony's knees. He hadn't been exaggerating when he'd said it was wide enough to share. It was half the size of his couch back home, still far larger than was necessary even for someone of Steve's not inconsiderable size. There was plenty of room to land when Steve pressed him back onto the mattress, broad fingers flipping open the latch on Tony's belt handily and tugging out his shirts and sliding his hands along the bare skin of Tony's stomach and hips. Muscles fluttered under Steve's touch, which was warmer than a human had any right to be. 

Before Tony had time to realize what was happening his brown over-tunic was yanked off over his head, but when Steve reached for the other shirt, panicked memory managed to rise above lust. He grabbed Steve's wrists and tightened his legs, flipping them over. They tumbled over together, Tony's knees landing on either side of Steve's hips, jarring against the wooden frame of the bed. Stomach and back muscles strained from the effort of moving Steve's great bulk with speed; he wouldn't have been able to do it at all without the small bit his father had contributed to his heritage. 

Heritage that was written broad across his chest. 

Steve sprawled under Tony, feet still planted on the floor over the edge of the bed. He didn't even make a token effort to free his wrist from Tony's grasp. "Shy?" he asked, smirking and leaning up to lick a hot line across Tony's collarbone. 

Tony's breath stuttered as heat licked across his skin, faeflames dancing on his nerves. He fought to keep his eyes from crossing, surprised by how a small touch could have such a large effect. "Maybe you're just too eager," he shot back. 

"I could slow down." In a single flex, Steve pulled his hand free, settling it on Tony's waist and pulling him down. Their hips lined up, striking sparks across Tony's mind. Tiny shifts of weight made the world spin every time their cocks brushed together, but it was nothing compared to Steve's lips, or where his fingertips brushed Tony's hipbones. "Or maybe you should speed up," Steve murmured against his ear, teeth catching the edge and tugging. 

"Is that a challenge?" Words came slow and thick between breaths. 

"Do you want it to be?" 

Scale mail was more effort to get off than Tony had anticipated. It caught and bunched instead of flowing smoothly the way _real_ scales did. Steve helped, sitting up so Tony could lift it off, and then the rough linen tunic beneath. Pants were easy, a few buckles and boots toed off; they practically took care of themselves. Before he knew it, Tony was left with a naked human stretched out under him, waiting patiently for whatever Tony wanted to do next. They were getting into the parts that Tony only knew by theory. Luckily, he'd always been good at extrapolating the theoretical into the practical.

Muscles rippled along Steve's chest and stomach, ridges and lines that made Tony lick his lips with want. He dragged his fingertips down the center dip, all the way down to where Steve's cock lay thick and heavy between them. 

Then he followed it with his tongue. Steve's skin tasted faintly salty, with a musk of leather and oil rather than the familiar spice of scales. Different, but in a good way. 

He followed the curve of muscles down until he had to drop to the floor on his knees, hands cradling Steve's thighs. They were just as thick with muscle as the rest of him, tense and straining. When Tony glanced up, Steve's eyes were locked on him, the iris nearly vanished entirely behind pupils that some trick of angle made seem slit rather than human-round. Holding Steve's gaze, Tony dragged his tongue along the shaft of Steve's cock. Salt-sweat turned bitter at the tip, wrinkling Tony's nose, but Steve groaned low in his throat and that more than made up for it. Since it had worked the first time, Tony did it again, wrapping his lips around the head. His hand cradled what his mouth couldn't, working it in a smooth slide of skin on skin. 

From there, Steve's body language became simple to follow, groans and rolls of his hips guiding Tony's touches better than words could have. His thighs spread open wide, ankles hooking behind Tony's knees as if to trap him there. Soon the feel of Steve's cock on his tongue became normal. He pushed down a little farther, until it bumped the back of his throat and made Steve gasp like the world were ending. His own cock throbbed in sympathy, aching to be touched more than a one-handed rub over his trousers. He fumbled his belt the rest of the way free and pushed his trousers down his hips to grab his cock. A few slow pumps eased the pressure, but it wasn't even close to enough.

When Steve wiggled backwards and pulled his cock away, Tony hissed, glaring upwards. "Yes?" 

Instead of a decent response like contrition, Steve laughed and propped himself up on his elbows. Pink had flushed up his chest and neck, coloring his cheeks. "Unless you want to finish that way, there's a pot of oil under the edge of the bed to your right."

 _Oh_. Tony fumbled for the jar, feeling around until his fingers brushed cool clay. The oil inside was thick, and smelled the same as Steve's skin—probably it was what he used on his gear. It wasn't the scented stuff Tony used for his personal explorations at home, but it would do. 

He dipped his fingers in, scooping up a good bit of it. Obligingly, Steve spread his thighs wider, which just set off a whole new throb. Tony rested his cheek along the inside of Steve's thigh, watching how he reacted as the first finger pressed in. It took almost no effort, and Steve's sigh was far from one of discomfort. A second was nearly as easy, massaging the muscle, spreading the slick oil around as thickly as he could. He knew this, at least. There were only so many options, and practice had been plentiful.

At the third finger, Steve's hips bucked down, taking him to the second knuckle and making Steve's back arch. "I take it back; you're not at all shy," Steve groaned, rocking down again. "You're just a tease. Fuck me already."

"I don't know," Tony said, licking dry lips. He dragged his cheek along the soft skin inside Steve's thigh, scraping stubble and beard over tender places. "I kind of like you like this." 

Steve's frustrated growl made it worth the delay. "If you don't fuck me _right now_ —"

It was Tony's turn to laugh. He kissed Steve's knee and reached for the oil pot again, standing to finish stripping off his pants. Compared to the time he'd spent on Steve, slicking himself up took only a few heartbeats. 

Fast as it was, it wasn't fast enough. Steve's knees wrapped around Tony's hips, dragging up to the edge of the bed and locking behind him. Tony caught himself on one arm, just in time to have his mouth taken over with a kiss. "I said _now_ , dragon," Steve muttered, sharp teeth as he nipped Tony's lips. "Get on with it."

"I _am_ 'getting on with it', _human_." Nerves had made a return, tightening a knot in Tony's throat. They were dulled a little by the heat of Steve's body, shining with sweat and so _demanding_ that Tony was half-sure that Steve was close to just flipping them over and taking what he wanted. 

Breathing out slowly, Tony lined his cock up and pushed. Oil-slick muscle parted smoothly for him, with only a bare hint of resistance. [Tony braced his feet on the floorboards](http://i1169.photobucket.com/albums/r514/phoenixmetaphor/rbb/nsfw_thumb.jpg) and rocked his hips, working his way in deeper. They rocked together, Steve's thighs straining to hold him, nails digging shoulders, fighting every time Tony withdrew.

Tongues and teeth battled in a kiss that grew harsher with every thrust. Steve's groan reverberated through them, a low thrum that sounded more dragon than human. The world narrowed down to the slide of Tony's cock inside Steve, the flares of pleasure where their skin touched. His shoulders ached, skin too tight, too hot, the royal crest on his chest burning as if it would char straight through his shirt. Everything fell into sharp relief, each breath and drop of sweat perfectly realized. It was even better when he took Steve's cock in his hand, working it with a palm still greased with oil. 

Steve's whole body arched when he came, muscles locking down and pinning Tony in place. Tony groaned a curse in Ažiliasán, forehead dropping to Steve's as he emptied himself inside him.

They stayed like that for a long minute, sweat cooling on their skin. Tony's heart was a drumbeat behind his ribs, too loud, too hard. His skin was too small, too smooth, fingers dull instead of clawed. It was maddening, ground-bound and tied inside a prison of flesh when he wanted to fly.

Soft lips pressed against his jaw, just under the trimmed line of his beard. The touch was simple, quiet, soothing. Tony settled back into his human skin with a sigh, melting down against Steve's chest. 

"You're going to need to wash your shirt," Steve murmured, lips tickling Tony's skin. "Should have taken it off." 

Tony snorted. "Maybe next time." 

A damp piece of cloth took care of the worst of the mess between them. Tony took advantage of Steve's kindness to borrow a spare tunic and did his best to make turning his back to put it on seem natural. The soiled one would be fine after a rinse, but it was late, and the exertion of sex had made wandering far from Steve's bed an incredibly unpleasant chore. He told himself that the rough linen and plain white color was punishment for not having had the forethought to hide his crest _before_ leaving out into human lands. Not anticipating meeting someone like Steve wasn't an excuse.

Next time, he'd definitely remember to plan a spell to cover the mark, or at least to wear bandages and claim to have an injury.

Going by Steve's curious expression as Tony slipped under the blankets beside him, there'd be questions later. The important part about that, though, was that they came _later_ , and none were forthcoming as they curled up together. The bed wasn't as soft as the one he had at home, and sharing it with Steve meant that there was just enough room to stretch out if they needed to. Even without the fire warming the room, Steve was a solid block of heat that more than took care of the rest of the chill. It was as comfortable as Tony had ever been, and he dropped to an easy sleep within minutes.


	4. Chapter 4

The fire in the brazier had barely burned down when a slight change in temperature made Tony's eyes snap open, a cool breeze touching the back of his neck. A warning prickled up his spine. He kept his breathing slow and steady, muscles relaxed. Very, very faintly, something scuffed against the floor, and the shadows on the back wall shifted unnaturally. Under the fire, the air smelled like snow and horse sweat. 

Steve's arm around his shoulders shifted slightly. When Tony glanced up he saw the firelight reflected in the faintest of cracks in Steve's eyelids. 

"Hear that?" Tony mouthed against Steve's skin, not even breathing the words aloud. In answer, Steve's arm flexed ever so slightly. "On three. One... Two..." Tony took a slow breath, listening to the room, feeling out the silences. There was a pause, expectant. "Three!"

Before the word was fully past his lips, Tony rolled out of the bed and dropped to the floor. As he'd expected, Steve leaped over him, tackling the person who'd crept up on them. Another one burst in through the door, meeting a blast of Tony's magefire head-on. They flew back, slamming into the person behind them and sending them rolling. 

Tony fumbled for the belt he'd discarded with his clothes, unhooking his miniature crossbow from its holster and cocking it open with a quick press of a lever. The arms sprang apart, a bolt of magic dropping into position just in time as two more people pushed into the room. Without time to aim properly, he managed to shoot one in the shoulder with the first shot, but the second missed when the target ducked. The bolt shattered against the flat ceiling as Tony found himself wrestled to the ground. He twisted, putting his not-inconsiderable strength behind it, but the black-clad woman slithered like an oiled snake. Something metal snapped around his wrist with a harsh click. 

Acid scorched the back of Tony's throat. The constant pulse of magic through the world under his feet, the touch that had been there since he'd been born, vanished in an eye-blink. Balance tilted sideways as the world shook under him. 

_Can't feel it gone empty can't feel it_ —

"Tony!" 

A cold breath of metal touched his other wrist and he yanked instinctively away, clawing at his attacker. She cried out, four lines of blood appearing on her raised forearm. For a breath, Tony blinked down at his changed fingers, watching as they slid back into human bluntness. Then she attacked again. Tony ducked, landing a blow in her sternum that sent her crashing back into the table. 

Two more women had set on Steve while Tony was distracted. They moved like lightning, like dragons. For all the finesse Steve had shown against Naia, he was barely keeping up with them.

Forcing his unsteady knees into action, Tony threw himself at the nearest and dragged her down. It wasn't the most graceful of moves, but it worked. He wrapped his arms and legs around her and concentrated on clinging, one hand covering her mouth and nose. While she struggled to free herself, Steve finished off his other opponent with a kick to the temple. A blow in the same place took out Tony's captive, knocking her limp. 

One of Steve's big hands wrapped around Tony's elbow and hauled him to his feet. "We have to go. There'll be two more around here somewhere."

Tony looked around at the wrecked cabin and the five fallen women. They were all dressed in black from head to toe, even their hair tucked up under a black snood. The only color anywhere on them was a silver patch sewn over their hearts and sleeves, an eagle rampant. "What the hell are they?"

"Shield maidens." Steve bent to pick up his clothing, shrugging it on at speed. "They work for the Maria's Hand. If they attacked us, it's because she ordered it."

"Wonderful. Why would the Maria attack you?" Following Steve's example, Tony dug out his trousers and started putting them on. 

Steve's eyes slid away, casually focusing on his belt buckle rather than Tony. "Who knows. Politics, maybe. Vítahil is sick with them."

Tony's eyes narrowed at Steve. _There's something more there._ But they didn't have time for questions. It would have to come later, when there weren't two more assassins out there looking to kill them. He finished tugging on his pants and boots, taking no care for their order. Steve's shirt looked terrible, but his own was still soiled, so he just stuffed it in the pack. 

When he touched his armor, it felt dead under his fingertips. There was none of the welcoming warmth, no life to it. Just metal, cold and brutal. On his wrist, the cuff gleamed silver, with no visible clasp or lock. It was as if it had been welded onto him. His gorge rose at the lacking , the utter deadness of the world. For a moment, while he'd been fighting, he'd forgotten, but it came back to him in a sharp wave of loss. "What did they do to me?" he whispered, sliding into his native tongue out of distress.

"What?" Steve's blue eyes lifted to his, dark with worry, and Tony shrugged off the nagging sense of everything that was wrong in the world.

"Later. We have to get to the Bay as quickly as possible." He left the armor inside his bag and instead pulled out his warm fur cloak. It was dark, bearskin cut from one of his own hunting trips with Rhodey, and would do to hide them as they sneaked away. "Ready?" 

"To desert? As I'll ever be." Steve's face twisted into a frown, but he grabbed up his shield and led the way out through the door. Tony followed without looking back. 

Almost as soon as they'd gotten away from the cabin, a light flashed in their direction. It lasted just long enough for Tony to make out the face of the soldier who had met them at the gate, and then it vanished again. Steve held out his arm to stop Tony from moving, but it was unnecessary. He crouched low and waited, hand on his dagger, as the soldier skulked up to them, staying low and darting from shadow to shadow. If it hadn't been for the initial signal, Tony might not have even seen her until she was upon them. 

"Carol," Steve hissed, kneeling down so they didn't make a silhouette against the stars. "What—"

She held up a hand to his mouth, breaking what Tony suspected were a thousand rules of discipline and etiquette. "No time. Lady Victoria is here, with her Third Seven. I told her you'd returned to your cabin, but I didn't mention your... guest. I tried to get away to warn you, but she kept me occupied fixing a place for them and then slipped away."

"We took care of them," Tony assured her. Cold was digging into his knees, the earth strange and unfriendly as snow soaked through his trousers. 

It was hard to tell in the dark, but he thought she flashed a quick smile his direction. "I thought you might have. Just— here." A small bag was shoved into his hands. "We did a whip around for what wouldn't be missed. Journey food, some money, a few tools you might need. It's not much, but hopefully it'll help. We'll do our best to slow them down from following, or getting word back to Vítahil."

Steve stared down at the bag as if were a trick of some sort. "You realize they're not going to be fooled. You'll all suffer for this." 

Carol shrugged. "You've been a good Legati. You looked after us, now we look after you. Shield cover you." Her fist touched her armored chest in an echo of a salute, and then she scrambled back into the shadows and was gone.

The bag of supplies went into Steve's pack without being checked, and they returned to slipping between cabins. A flare of light from a bonfire in the west suggested that something was going on, but otherwise the camp was dead quiet. They didn't encounter anyone else until they reached the gate, which was as fully guarded as ever. Even there, the soldiers on duty didn't say anything, didn't look at them as they passed. Even Tony could read their body language: _You weren't here, I didn't see you._

And then there was only the open night and the burn of the dragon's campfires to the north. Tony eyed it thoughtfully, then looked over at Steve. He could be sure a few people would be willing to help them out, but memory of Naia's body left to freeze in a mountain pass made him hold his tongue. He couldn't risk one of his friends being attacked. 

They made their way east over the last low, rounded remnant of the foothills. According to the stars, it was only a few hours to dawn, so they made the most of it. 

Silence wrapped around them like a shroud as they traveled, only grunts or the occasional warning about poor terrain breaking it. Not even birds or crickets made any noises; they generally didn't when there was a dragon in the area, and regardless of Tony's deficiencies he still smelled like dragon. That suited Tony's mood fine for the first two miles, but by the third it started hurting. There was no distraction to keep him from thinking about how hobbled he felt, nothing to block the sensation that he was walking through a graveyard. Yanking at the cuff did not good—it fit close to the skin, with just around room to twist about freely. Short of cutting off his thumb, it wasn't going to come off.

When dawn finally started turning the eastern sky pink, foothills had turned to plains and then again to sparse woods, leaving the sunlight to peek through branches laden with dying leaves. More leaves lined the floor, thin on the ground and rimmed with ice; most of the snow had been caught by the branches overhead. Tony had rubbed a raw spot against the base of his palm from tugging at the shackle, and his heart had settled somewhere near his stomach in the form of a rock. His thighs and calves ached from the unaccustomed walking, but not nearly so much as his soul. 

Steve paused by a pine tree, looking up as if he could estimate their position without the stars. "We should stop and rest," he finally said, the only words from him in an hour. "If they're looking for us, now will be the best time for them."

" _If_ they're looking, you say." Tony found a log that looked only a little rotten. He gave it a good kick and, when nothing came crawling out other than a few bugs, took a seat. "From the sound of it, someone wants you dead as much as someone wants me the same. I don't think they'll stop just because you got away." 

"The Maria's Hand never stops, she just pauses to regroup." Steve took a seat at the other end of Tony's log and dug out the bag they'd been given to root through. He came up with a couple of rolls that, on inspection, were filled with some sort of pungent cheese and ham. 

Tony gnawed on the crust of his roll half-heartedly, realizing that he needed to eat but not necessarily hungry. "So, soldier, care to speculate why your ruler would send someone to kill you?"

"If the Shield Maidens had orders to kill me, they'd just have blocked the exits and set the cabin on fire," Steve said, far too calmly for someone talking about his own possible grisly murder. "I was supposed to arrive at Vítahil a few days ago, with the rest of the legion. The Maria probably sent them to find me."

"And why would that be?" Tony dug, not willing to let it go. "Soldiers can go on leave, can't they? Especially in the winter treaty." Like before, Steve's eyes shifted away. This time Tony retaliated by snapping his foot out to kick Steve's thigh. "Oh no. You're traveling with me, I deserve to know why someone might be after you. It's my risk too."

"You're not going to like it."

"I like being ambushed in the middle of the night even less."

The muscles in Steve's jaw tightened, like he might hold out, but then his shoulders slumped slightly. Tony had just enough time to pat himself on the back for reading that much when Steve said, "I think my friend is the one who poisoned your king." 

Dead, utter silence as Tony tried to process that. Steve still wasn't meeting his eyes, holding his head down and shoulders hunched in a way that couldn't have been more clear if he had wings. Finally Tony took a long, slow breath that seemed too loud in the quiet. "Why?" 

"Politics. What else?" Steve fiddled with the canvas sack that had held the rolls. "The Maria hates dragons. _Hates_ them. Not like a ruler at war hates their enemy. It's personal for her. No one knows why. So she won't back down from the war, and everyone knows it's getting expensive. It's been a holding pattern for years, fighting back and forth over the same strip of land. Rumors say that no one in court has the stomach for it anymore, but no one can go against the Maria."

Tony nodded; he knew exactly what that was like. Dragons who had challenged his father tended to never fly again. It didn't surprise him that humans were the same. "And you think she sent your friend."

"He's good at that sort of thing. I followed them north, towards the nest, but I lost track of them."

"They couldn't have made it," Tony said with certainty. "Not on foot, not at this time of year. Not without—" Sudden cold dropped to the bottom of Tony's stomach, joining the nausea from having his magic locked away. Naia, young and stupid and too eager to make her mark flashed behind his eyes. "Not without a dragon."

* * *

At first, Steve wasn't sure he'd heard Tony right. He twisted his head around and stared, shame at his people's machinations falling temporarily by the wayside. "That can't be right. A dragon wouldn't kill their king, would they?"

"Why not? Humans do it all the time. Maybe not your kingdoms, but I hear in the ice lands they practically make it a tradition." Every line of Tony's body was still, even his eyes stayed locked on some point in midair. Steve couldn't have even sworn he was breathing. "But killing the king is the best way to expand the war past the borders. We'd never let it go. Why take that sort of risk?"

"Maybe the Maria thinks that the prince would be easier to win the war against?" Even as he said it, Steve realized how badly that worked out. "No, even if the new king is inexperienced and young, they're still dragons. A few flights of them could quash Vítahil just by landing on it." 

Something startled Tony out of his daze. He shook himself like a bird being rid of rain. Dry leaves crunched under his feet as he stood and started to pace, kicking leaves out of the way as he did so. He rubbed absently at a silver bracelet on his right wrist, twisting it around. "It wouldn't be the prince. As soon as m— as the king died, someone would challenge the prince for the throne, and then another challenge, and another. There'd be a decade of fighting before anything was decided. Maybe more."

It was too easy to see why the Maria would want that. Dragons fighting amongst themselves was better than if they'd conceded the war. "Someone thinks they'll come out on top, then. And they're willing to work with the Maria to do it." 

"Yeah. Yeah, they do." Tony whipped around, his fur cape flaring dramatically as he fell to his knees and started digging through his bag. "We need to hurry. If this is what it seems, both our nations are in danger. Where is it where _is_ it?"

"What are you looking for?" Curiosity getting the better of him, Steve abandoned his seat and crouched down next to the increasingly frantic dragon. "If we're going to hurry, shouldn't you put on your armor?"

Tony didn't stop digging through his bag, taking out things and spreading them on the ground. In addition to his armor there was a hammer, a measuring stick that folded up, some sort of tool with a strange crossed end and a small collection of the usual traveling things such as bread and fishing line. Whatever he was looking for wasn't there, though, and he emptied the bag with a growl. "I need a chisel. One of those maidens put some sort of— of _lock_ on me. The armor won't fly until I get it off." He held out his right wrist, where the silver band he'd been fiddling with gleamed evilly.

Steve cursed and grabbed Tony's arm, pushing the sleeve up to expose the whole thing. It was exactly as he'd feared; the shackle had no writing, no spells or places of weakness. Those were for items of magic, and it was the exact opposite. "I recognize this. It faerie silver—they use it in the jails, when they need to hold a magic user. You won't be able to get it off with a chisel. I don't think you could get it off if you took off your hand."

Disgust and rage made an interesting mix on Tony's face. "So we have to walk, because I was dumb enough to let someone trap me." 

He looked so close to transforming and eating the messenger that Steve shifted his grip, sliding it down to hold Tony's hand instead of his arm. They were strong hands, firm in his even when Tony wasn't paying attention. If he hadn't known Tony was a monster, Steve might have mistaken him for human. Steve was inexplicably struck with the memory of how those hands had felt on him, _in_ him, followed by a vivid daydream of how they'd look braced on the forest floor. 

Before distraction could get the better of him, he hurried to say, "It doesn't affect natural abilities. Just change into a dragon." It would be faster anyway, and Steve had a feeling he'd be less likely to lose his stomach if Tony were larger. 

The hand in Steve's flexed, blunt fingertips digging into his knuckles as Tony sagged sideways. His hair tickled the side of Steve's neck when Tony rested his head on his shoulder. The rough linen of his borrowed tunic caught on Steve's mail, threatening to rip a hole in it if they parted too quickly. "I can't." 

"What?" Steve blinked in confusion, but let himself be used as a pillow. He rubbed a gentle circle between Tony's shoulder blades, drawing his fingers along the sharp ridge of bone. "What do you mean, you can't? You're a dragon. Aren't you?"

"Of course I'm a dragon!" As suddenly as he'd taken Steve's shoulder as a pillow, Tony yanked upright, glaring as if Steve had done him a personal insult. "I am. It's just... complicated."

 _How can he be a dragon if he can't change?_ the rage asked, and the question hovered on his lips, begging to be said. Old, familiar fury curled around Steve's heart, temper threatening to flare, anger that Tony had let him think he was a dragon, that he'd kept it secret. They'd put their lives in each other's hands, and Tony hadn't even been honest about his _species_.

When Steve didn't respond immediately, Tony's lip curled into a snarl. "Go on. Say it," he dared in a low growl. "You wouldn't be the first. Even the king's said it."

Something in Steve broke, draining the anger out until he felt oddly hollow. He'd seen Tony's expression before, back ten years earlier, when the taunting got to be too much and the fights would start. 

_Soldier? You're not a soldier, you're dragon bait. I bet my grandmother could beat you in a fight. What are you going to do, stick in their teeth and make a cavity?_

Memories tightened knots in his throat, clenched his fists until the knuckles ached. Deliberately, Steve looked down and started scooping things back into the travel sack. "King or not, that doesn't sound like company I care to keep," he said levelly. 

A long, waiting silence. Steve didn't look up at Tony's expression as he sorted and repacked the things, giving him that much privacy. Finally, a long sigh, a breath released after being held too long. Tony's hands joined his, taking care of the last few things. "I— Well. It's going to be a problem. I can't change, and I can't fly. So either we get this thing off of me, or we're walking to the Bay."

Unsaid were the words, _which would take weeks_. They didn't need to be said to be heard. Steve placed the last bit of the strange, plate-shaped bread on the top of the pack and flipped it shut before looking up. "Can I see the shackle again?" 

Tony's eyes were suspiciously red around the edges, but otherwise he looked composed. Without hesitation, he gave Steve his right wrist. Gently Steve turned the cuff around, looking for any sort of identifying mark, anything that might make it different. There wasn't anything, though, not even any scratches. Most relieving, it didn't have the sign of the shield or the eagle. "This looks like a standard one that the watch uses. You can find them in any gaol, and watchmen carry them almost everywhere." 

"So?" Tony gave his wrist a slight tug, but Steve kept hold of it. The skin on the very inside of his forearm was soft and smooth, and judging by the way Tony shivered when Steve's thumb stroked it, sensitive. 

"So," Steve repeated, tracing his thumb along the edge of the shackle just to see Tony's eyelashes flutter. "If watchmen have the lock, they probably also have the key."

A pause, and then a smile crept across Tony's face. "I could kiss you."

"I'll hold you to that later." Steve squeezed Tony's hand, then stood and used it to haul him to his feet. "First, we need to find a town."

* * *

"You _lost him_?" The Maria's hands tightened around the silver frame of her mirror. "How could you lose him from his own garrison?" 

Lady Victoria, currently her Hand, looked up from the silvered glass, expression unreadable. Dark purple mottled her temple and down her jaw, signs of the thumping Legati Steven had given her. "He had a dragon with him, Lady. We were unprepared."

Throwing the mirror wouldn't solve anything, but the temptation was as great as it had ever been. She forced herself to breathe calmly, to feel the presence of the Shield at her back. Problems did not solve themselves when they were confronted with anger. That was the dragon's purview, and anything they took as a virtue she could only name a vice. "You're certain it was a dragon?" the Maria finally said after a long pause. "Could it not have been another soldier? Perhaps one like the Legati?" 

Victoria shook her head, a strand from her deep auburn forelock falling out of her snood and into her eyes. "No, ma'am. Mockingbird has claw marks on her arm, and neither were armed with a weapon that could have produced such damage. It can only have been a dragon." 

This time the Maria didn't hold herself back from loudly wishing the Sword to fall on the head of every dragon alive. After hearing reports from the heart of the nest, she had no doubt that someone was working diligently to destroy her plans, but Legati Steven had been the last person she'd thought would work with a _dragon_. 

Her Hand waited patiently for the Maria to stop cursing before saying, "All may not be lost. Bluebird heard the dragon say something about going to the Bay. I believe it may have been referring to the Bay of Silks."

Sitting back in her chair, the Maria nodded. Unfortunately for her Hand, that wasn't news, but the reminder had a cooling effect on her temper. "Yes... Yes, that would make sense. My... Sources suggest the same, but confirmation is never unwelcome. Thank you, Lady Victoria." 

The vision in the mirror wavered, and then Victoria's face appeared closer, her head lowered for secrecy. "The First of Seven is in that area, my Lady. If you...?"

The First of Seven, the most elite of the Shield Maidens. _That_ was an interesting idea. "I think there may be an unexpected wisdom in your words. Thank you, my Hands."

Lady Victoria bowed her head, but not before the Maria caught sight of her proud smile. "I live to serve you, my Lady."

* * *

What they found wasn't much of a town. It was one of those transitory places, occupied mostly by a migratory populace of loggers in summer and trappers in winter. The handful of residents that were there year-round either worked at the inn, at one of the supply shops, or as entertainment for weary travelers looking to have some of their stress lifted away. Buildings were nearly as simple as the not-quite-temporary encampments that sprang up when the garrison had to move at the border, only a few of them having been finished to any detail. They had the ceramic roofing tiles that everywhere did, since flames and ice from above were one of the favorite ways dragons had to attack buildings.

Steve dragged Tony down the single dirt road that carved through the center of town, hands in front of him and a collar around his neck attached to a leather leash. They'd cobbled together some loose shackles from the ends and pieces in Tony's things, topping it off with a gag made out of the bottom hem of Tony's borrowed tunic. A close inspection would show anyone with sense that the "prisoner" would be able to pull free with a hard enough tug, but it was enough to fool a casual inspection. They'd polished Steve's armor so it hadn't been so obviously thrown on in the middle of the night, and for good measure he was wearing his helmet.

People stopped and stare as he pulled Tony past, parents cradling their little ones against them and pointing out what happened to naughty children who didn't obey. A few of the smarter ones hissed _dragon spy_ , but most of them didn't recognize Tony's clothing well enough to make that leap. 

Being exposed made the hair on the back of Steve's neck stand up. He was betting that news of his desertion hadn't reached such a backwater place, but it was an expensive bet. If someone had used magic to send a message, news could have gotten to every corner of the Hills before they'd stopped for breakfast. But if they waited, or tried somewhere larger, the odds would only get worse.

Fortunately for Steve's nerves, a watchman met them before they even reached the town square, in the plain leather armor and helmet that was probably all a man needed in such a small place. He was a big, broad-shouldered black man with a no-nonsense expression that, under ordinary circumstances, Steve might have liked immediately. "Legati," he said warily, stopping a good six feet away from Steve and Tony. "We don't get many army men out here."

"I expect you don't. I'm Steve, Legati of the fourth Legion in the Maria's Army" Steve wrapped Tony's leash around his hand and pretended to hold the back of his collar. Tony made a token effort at twisting away, snarling something that sounded vicious behind his gag. The effort rebounded him back into Steve's body, almost certainly unintentionally rubbing his backside into Steve's groin.

The watchman eyed them suspiciously, but nodded slowly. He was even taller than Steve by a few inches, and loaded with just as much muscle. "The name's Luke, captain of the local watch. What can I help you with, Legati? You're a long way from the front." 

"I was visiting a friend and I stumbled on this— _spy_ on my way back." With a shove, he pushed Tony forward, making him stumble. "He's working for the dragons, and I need to take him to Vítahil for the Maria's Judgment."

Luke's expression of faint suspicion didn't waver. He hooked his thumbs in his belt and rocked back on his heels. "Looks like you've got everything well enough in hand then, don't you?"

Steve shrugged, fighting to keep his face from giving him away. He'd never been a good liar, but leading a legion had given him a decent blank expression. "Not quite. I need supplies. Obviously I don't want to drag him through your market, but he's got some sort of magic trick he does with locks, so I can't leave him tied up." 

The captain's eyes slid from Steve to Tony, and then around to the bystanders that were lingering close enough to hear. Finally, he nodded grudgingly. "You can dump him in one of the cells. Come on, this way." 

Obediently, Steve followed the captain around to a small building on the far edge of the town. It was one of the few made out of stone, with metal reinforcement on the doors and windows. There were only four cells, three of them empty. The full one had a man passed out across a mattress on the floor, the reek of wine so strong that Steve could smell it from the doorway. A couple other watchmen were on duty, playing a game of dice. When the captain walked in, they leaped to their feet, one of them knocked the dice off the table to bounce onto the floor, while the other scraped the tokens off. 

Luke looked at one, then the other, and shook his head. "Yeah, I thought so." He reached up on the wall and unhooked a key. "Danny, get the Legati a better set of chains. That set he's using looks like it's nearly rust. Colleen, a mage-lock for our spy here."

As the captain opened one of the cells, Tony put on a show of struggling that was a little too enthusiastic. He wrestled with Steve, twisting and pulling with enough force that it made it hard to keep hold of him. That was just what they _didn't_ need, a successful escape. Steve ended up grabbing his collar and twisting to pin Tony to one of the stone walls, knee between his thighs and arms stretched overhead. "That's _enough_ ," he snarled in Tony's face.

Tony's lip curled. "I'm not going in there, _human_."

"Sure you're not, _spy_." Helpfully, the watchman that the captain had called Danny appeared with the promised set of chains. The twisting and wiggling started up again. They fumbled around, fighting to keep a hold on Tony, who'd already managed to snap one of the fake cuffs off in his enthusiasm. Luke joined the party, and only Tony dropping between their legs and squirming out kept the mess from getting any bigger.

Over toward the back, the one named Colleen had another set of keys and was opening a drawer. Steve saw the glint of silver out of the corner of his eye just as Luke wrapped a massive arm around Tony's chest and lifted him clean off his feet. Danny was reached for Tony's wrists, manacles open.

Steve's elbow slammed into Danny's jaw, knocking him backwards and knocking his leather helm askew. He cursed and staggered, just on time for another blow to catch him on the temple and drop him to the floor. Colleen let out a loud yell, leaping over the desk, and Luke turned. 

"Sorry about this," Steve grunted, landing a solid blow in the captain's stomach. Tony twisted around in his loosened grip, dropping to the floor. He hooked a hand around one of Luke's knees and yanked, sending the big man to the floor. His head cracked on the stone, dazing him. 

Grabbing up the shackles, Steve slid them across to Tony and then turned to catch Colleen's fist on his cheek. He blocked the next blow, and caught the third, using it as a lever to flip her onto her back and pin her with her arms behind her back. She squirmed and cursed, but he weighed too much for her to get free easily.

Another set of shackles appeared over Steve's shoulder, backed up by Tony's grin. "Need these?"

"Thanks." Locking up the watchwoman, he dragged her over to her captain and hooked them together back to back while Tony dug through the unlocked drawer. The unconscious one was showing signs of waking, so Steve dragged him over too. There didn't look to be another set of shackles, so he used what was left of Tony's fake ones to tie him in. They'd break, but he wasn't interested in keeping long-term prisoners anyway. 

Luke blinked blearily at them, eyes not quite focused. "You're not a Legati," he groaned, sagging forward. 

"I am, but it's complicated." Steve checked the captain's eyes. Slightly concussed, but he'd probably be fine with ten minutes and a healer. Guilt was an odd tug at his heart. This was the second set of humans he'd fought that day in order to aid a dragon. At least the Shield Maidens had attacked him first; Luke hadn't done anything to deserve it. "Sorry we had to fool you. You'll be grateful when you send in your report." 

Behind the desk, Tony made a disgusted noise. "What am I looking for in here?" he asked no one in particular and held up a ink well that had been spelled to never spill. "Human magic doesn't make sense. How do you not blow yourselves up every time you wash a plate?"

"We manage." Steve double-checked the bindings, then went to help Tony look. The inactivated mage-locks were simple strips of silver, meant to wrap around a wrist and flex into it. He dug through the drawer, shifting things aside until he found the little gold cutters. "These."

"Gold? To unlock _silver_?" Tony's nose wrinkled in academic disgust. "Who had that idea?"

"How would I know? I'm not a mage." Taking Tony's wrist before there could be any objections, Steve snipped the band off. It sprung open back into its original shape, none the worse for having been used. "There. Better?"

A tremor ran through Tony's frame, as if he'd suddenly been struck by a cold wind. Unfocused blue eyes stared straight through Steve, blinking slowly. "Yeah," he breathed. "Better. Much better. Thanks."

Just in case, Steve pocketed the cutters and a few spare bands, putting a few coins down to pay for the loss. "We should get out of here."

"That's _it_?" Luke had twisted his neck around to watch them, baffled fury written across his face. Next to him, Colleen was working at the manacles, trying to work her wrists free without much success. "You tie us up and make off with _that_? You could have just asked!"

By the door, Tony waited impatiently, arms crossed. Steve shook his head and picked up the packs he'd dropped in the fight and joined him. "No, we couldn't. Trust me on that."

Mostly the street was empty, but they still made a point of slipping out and around back with as little fuss as possible. If someone got the bright idea to check at the watch house for the latest gossip and found the guards, Steve didn't doubt that Luke and his people would be happy to track them down for a little legal revenge. They stayed to the shadows until they reached the side of the building that was closest to the forest line, and then made a break for it. 

In spite of being shorter, Tony kept up with Steve neatly, running low and light like a greyhound on the track. They passed the tree line without anyone sounding an alarm, but didn't stop running until the town was well behind them. Steve's legs ached slightly, but Tony nearly collapsed against a tree, panting.

"I'm never making fun of Rhodey again," he groaned, bending over with his arms braced on his knees. 

"Not used to so much work?" Smug probably wasn't one of his better qualities, but Steve couldn't help but smirk a little. The dragon looked good, lightly sheened with sweat and still wearing the makeshift collar. As competent as he'd been at everything else, Steve had been starting to feel more than a little redundant.

"I'm a mage. We're not exactly expected to fly laps every day." Slowly, like a tree collapsing into thick underbrush, Tony slid down to the forest floor. Here there were less leaves, signs that people spent enough time in the area to clear them out. It left Tony plenty of room to stretch out, his fine if oddly styled clothing getting smudged with dirt. "Hand me my armor. There's enough of the day left that we can still make decent time."

Dutifully, Steve tossed over the bag with the armor, and was surprised when Tony actually managed to catch it. He reached inside and took out one of the forearm plates, turning it over in his hands before putting it on. His sigh was nearly orgasmic as he pulled out more pieces. "Great mother, it feels good to have this back. Thanks."

"Don't mention it." Steve eyed the sun. They'd taken the entire morning finding a town to raid, and his stomach was starting to feel the pinch of a long day of walking. A little digging through the other pack unearthed the last of the rolls Carol had packed them. He took two for himself, and then tossed the bag at Tony, who caught it as neatly as he had his armor. "Eat up. If we don't have to, let's not stop until dark."

Tony grinned and held up a roll in toast. "Sounds good to me."

* * *

They flew all day, even past sundown, until Steve's hand cramped from gripping the armor and Tony's magic was too weak to lift them higher than it took to clear the tree tops. Steve was surprised to find that it wasn't an unpleasant method of travel without the cold mountain wind to buffet them around or numb his limbs. Odd, definitely, and not necessarily comfortable, but flying clearly had benefits beyond miles covered.

Which wasn't to say that speed was not a factor. In the single half-day of travel, they covered as much ground as might have taken a week on foot. Steve estimated seventy miles, and Tony's figures came closer to a hundred, taking in hills and poor terrain. By the time they set down, thin forest had turned to thick pine, and they were nearly to the river that divided the Land of the Hills down its center.

"Two more days," Steve estimated. Tony traveled about twice as fast as a horse and bypassed the obvious ground obstacles, which saved a surprising amount of time. His finger traced their path along a map he'd found in the gift-pack from his legion. Light from the campfire Tony had used magic to start lit the page better than he could have hoped, though the too-rosy color was off-putting for a man used to more organic sources of illumination. "Being able to travel straight through is a blessing. Even at this speed, following the road would take another day's time."

"Roads are overrated. I don't know why humans bother with them." Tony had practically collapsed atop a makeshift pallet formed out of his fur cape. He didn't seem to mind getting the bearskin dirty, though Steve though that a skin that large and full was probably worth a small fortune in any size of market. His boots had been peeled off and were lying with their packs, but once again he'd kept his shirt on. 

Steve let his eyes slide over Tony's prone form, then back to the map to double-check their distances. "We don't have wings. That's why." 

A snort was the only answer he got. For a man— _dragon_ —with roughly the same physical limitations as Steve, Tony had a remarkable disdain for the things humans used to make up for it. Like roads and maps. Apparently dragons navigated through some sort of instinct that Tony couldn't explain without slipping first into that strange, musical language and then farther down into using terms that didn't seem to have any correlation to words Steve knew. Even Steve's armor when he'd removed the top layer had been worthy of derision, though he'd at least grudgingly admitted that the scales weren't _too_ much an idea stolen from dragons.

It was hard, sometimes, to think of Tony as anything other than a human. He was so obviously a _person_ , with a personality and opinions and feelings just like any other. Steve had spent all his life thinking of dragons as essentially beasts—smart enough to go to war, to have a king that could negotiate a treaty, but not much else. Finding out that they weren't the monsters he'd been raised to believe in made the war even more nonsensical.

Uncomfortably aware that his thoughts had already passed from treasonous into nearly blasphemy, Steve lifted the map and tapped a spot to drag the conversation back on track. "If we stop by the falls tomorrow night, we'll be able to get to the Bay before sunset the next day. It'll take a long day of flying though. Do you think you can do it?"

One of Tony's eyes opened, gleaming in the firelight. He stretched out, slowly, shoulders rolling back as he braced himself upright. Two days of beard left his jaw in shadow, hiding the sharp cut of bone under the skin. "I think so. As long as we're not attacked again." 

Automatically, Steve touched his forehead. "Don't tempt the gods. They're already playing enough games with us."

"I'd rather tempt you."

Steve's eyes cut across the fire. Exhaustion dragged at his bones, but the look in Tony's eyes made that suddenly easy to ignore. Deliberately, he let his gaze slide down the stretch of Tony's neck to the hidden curve of muscular shoulders. He could easily imagine how they'd look bare, from the brief flashes of them he'd gotten when Tony had changed shirts. Lower, to the spread thighs that weren't at all hidden by leather trousers, and bare feet braced against dark fur. 

"You're doing a good job of it," Steve admitted. He wondered if it was sick, to want a dragon. The Maria would certainly think it was.

Tony patted the fur beside him. "Come over here. You'll get cold if you sleep alone anyway. Humans are so fragile."

"And you're so tough, huh?" But Steve obediently rolled up the map and tucked it back into its oilcloth tube before stepping around the fire. Instead of at Tony's side, though, he crawled onto his lap, straddling his hips with a kiss. "I don't remember you being so forward last night?"

Warm, callused hands settled at his waist, already sliding up under his under-tunic. Tony's lips tasted like metal from the helmet, a sharp, bitter flavor that lingered after the kiss broke. "Maybe I've just had time to get used to the idea of sex with a human."

Humming, Steve nuzzled a kiss to the line of Tony's jaw, feeling the scratch of stubble on his skin. "I wouldn't think dragons would be interested in sex in human form," he murmured, nipping the spot over the pulse.

The long, slightly embarrassed silence that followed Steve's comment made him pull back. In the oddly colored firelight it was hard to tell, but he thought Tony was blushing. His shoulders had come up and his back sunk down, as if he could hide by making himself small enough. "You'd never..." Steve started, and Tony just sunk down even farther. "Not with a dragon _or_ a human?"

"Dragons typically aren't interested in wingless shapes," Tony muttered, eyes lowered and blush growing dark enough that even the strange light couldn't disguise it. "And most humans don't have much interest in dragons."

Steve sat back on his heels, considering Tony's position with a practiced eye. It only took one tug to pull his hands out from under him and send him crashing back to the spread cloak with a surprised shout. He braced his arms on either side of Tony's head and leaned down until their mouths barely touched while Tony was still too surprised to react. "Then they don't know what they're missing," he murmured, tilting his head to deepen the kiss. 

Tony responded slowly, almost shyly. His tongue barely brushed against Steve's, and even that was only a ghost of a touch that matched the skim of his fingers up Steve's back. Their bodies fell together, just pressure and presence enough to draw a groan from Steve's throat. 

The sound seemed to make Tony bolder. His nails dragged light lines across Steve's shoulder blades, just hard enough for pleasure. In answer Steve dropped his weight more, fitting his hips against Tony's. They rocked together in slow, lazy movement. 

Pleasure didn't come with the sharp bite it usually did. It was a soft drag through Steve's veins, tugging him along without notice until his cock moved _just_ the right way against Tony's hip, to make him arch and gasp. He had the presence of mind to fumble for Tony's belt one-handedly, fighting the buckle and laces without bothering to look down at what he was doing. Tony had seemed to have the same idea; their knuckles brushed as they groped together. 

When Steve finally won the battle and pulled Tony's cock out, it was comfortable weight hot in his hand, hot and hard, tip slick when he ran his thumb over it. He gave the shaft a tentative squeeze, watching the way it made Tony's face slacken in pleasure. The hand at his own waist hesitated, fingers going still, and Steve immediately took advantage of the moment to glide his fingers down Tony's shaft. 

Then Tony's damnably clever fingers figured out that Steve had buttons rather than laces. A second later lightning flared behind Steve's eyes when Tony's hand closed around his cock. Calluses played hell on his nerves when they brushed under the head of his cock, a faint scrape down to his balls.

The kiss faded to just the press of their mouths together, sharing breaths, heart thudding like wingbeats. Their hands worked together off-pace, not quite in sync, but close. Steve watched Tony's face, marking out when a twist of his hand or well-timed pause earned the most reaction, drinking in the changes as they came. It was almost as good as the way Tony's fingers wrapped around him. 

Their hips rocked together as they climbed higher in the odd space of closeness that was building between them. Silence was broken by the crackle of the fire and the occasional moan, half-voiced names too soft to call a whisper. Tony lost control first, his head falling back and back arching as he spilled over Steve's hand, heels digging into the dirt. Through it his hand on Steve's cock didn't falter; if anything, the grip turned more demanding, the touches more certain as Tony watched him with lazy eyes. 

Steve fell over the edge soon after, a soft slide into pleasure that left him more shaken than mere sex ever had. Everything was too small, his clothes, his skin. He touched their foreheads together, breathing slowly. It felt like he was on the edge of a cliff looking down into the sea, almost ready to jump but not sure if there were rocks or warm water to catch him. 

Almost, he didn't care. That was more frightening than the not knowing. _One day,_ he thought to himself. _You've known him one day._

As an excuse, it didn't feel like much.

Red light made stark shadows across Tony's face. "That's..." He licked lips that were already shined with a trace of saliva. "Was that normal?" 

"I..." Steve swallowed and closed his eyes, turning his head to bury his nose in Tony's throat. He smelled like spices and metal, like something sharp. It wasn't a human smell, but it was strangely soothing. "I don't think so."


	5. Chapter 5

Other than embarrassing personal confessions, the rest of the night passed without trouble. Which turned out to be a small blessing, since both of them were too tired from the night before to keep any sort of watch. Before the Shield Maidens had attacked them, Tony would have trusted himself to wake up if a human approached. Knowing that there were humans out there capable of nearly getting close enough to stick a sword in him was disturbing, but not enough to keep him awake after the first moon passed the meridian. 

Dawn arrived with a brisk wind and clouds on the western horizon, accompanied by the chirps of a few birds either too brave or too foolhardy to care that there was a dragon in the area. They'd slept in a mixed pile of their traveling cloaks, body heat and the fire enough to keep them warm against the first bite of the southern winter. Lying buried against Steve's chest, Tony watched the sky turn to purple, and then pink, edged with gold that peeked through the trees. 

A cold draft crept in along their toes where the cloak had shifted, making Tony shiver and curl up a little to get away from it. He used it as an excuse to nuzzle into Steve's neck, pressing a kiss to his jaw. Two days of beard growth that made Tony look like a wandering vagrant were nearly invisible on Steve. The stubble was so pale it vanished into his skin except when the light hit it just right, and so soft that it tickled more than scraped. 

Steve's arm tensed under Tony's head as he stretched, body arching against Tony's in a way that made lingering at the camp seem like a splendid idea. Almost immediately, guilt twisted through him for even thinking about it. His king—his _father_ —was dying back at the citadel, and he was thinking about wasting time with a human. An exceptionally handsome human, but still. It was one thing to pass time when they had to stop for the evening, but a deliberate delay was nothing but selfish. 

Sleep-blurred blue eyes blinked at him hazily when Tony pulled away. "Good morning," Steve muttered through a voice thick and rough from sleep. 

It made Tony's stomach twist with a different, altogether more pleasant sensation. Leaning down, he pressed a quick kiss to Steve's lips, sighing when they parted easily under his. _A few minutes won't hurt,_ he told himself, and tried to pretend that he believed it.

When the kiss ended, Steve's eyes were wide-open and bright, no longer fogged over. Tony took that as a sign and forced himself to get up, grabbing for boots at the foot of their shared pallet. "We should leave soon. It's a long day of flying."

To his credit, Steve nodded and rolled out, accepting his own boots with easy acceptance. "It looks like we might have some weather. Is that going to be problem?" 

Tony cast an eye upward, judging the clouds. "Wind, maybe. I don't think I can fly above it and carry you. It's too cold up there and the air is thin." An electrical storm would be a problem too. He'd never traveled much himself, but Rhodey had told him about a storm on the border that had grounded the whole flight for a week. They'd had to fight as humans, and consequently had lost a lot of ground. 

Dragons, in general, didn't do well when they couldn't fly. 

"We'll worry about it if it happens, then." Steve had shoved on his boots and was collecting his armor from the oilcloth they'd wrapped it in to keep the frost off. Unlike Tony's, it wasn't spelled against rust, and Tony didn't have the time to handle it while on the move. He shrugged his scale armor over his shoulders, stretching to make it settle. "If you have to, leave me near a creek and go on alone. I'll find a town eventually."

Tony paused in slipping his over-tunic on, staring at Steve in mild bemusement. Of all the things he'd expected, that hadn't been one of them. "Of course you would," he finally replied, as if there were any chance at all that he might be willing to leave Steve in the middle of nowhere just so he could get an hour or so of better flying time. Considering that they'd been attacked twice, what it saved him in time he'd probably just lose in injuries. 

Breaking fast and packing ended up taking nearly no time at all. Steve seemed a little put off by the food Tony had brought, flipping the flat bread over as if he expected it to puff out into a loaf. The spicy spread gained his approval though, which was a relief. Tony wasn't sure if humans could even stand dragon food. His mother hated it; there was a chef who did nothing but make certain she had suitably bland meals. It was one of the many things Tony was glad he hadn't inherited from that side of his lineage. He might not be able to change shape like a proper dragon, but at least he didn't have to eat differently.

They took off into the air just as the sun finished crossing the horizon completely. To the west the clouds had taken a dark, ugly purple tone with the coming day, like a bruise spreading across the sky. Rising to his normal flight level was out of the question, even if he weren't flying with a passenger—even a few thousand feet over the trees the crosswinds turned brutal. Through the armor he could feel Steve clinging to him with more force than he had the day before, arm tense where it crossed the back of his neck. With one eye on the clouds behind them, Tony held on tight and put on as much speed as he could.

Through application of effort and speed they managed to stay riding the edge of the storm for three hours before it finally caught up to them. Rain spit down from above, drenching Steve to the bone and trickling cold water into the joints of Tony's armor. A headache formed behind Tony's eyes, tightly knotted like a muscle held too long tense. It was accompanied by an unpleasant buzz in his bones unlike anything he'd ever felt before. 

The first round of thunder made Tony's heart nearly stop. Overhead, thunderclouds that had been hidden by the first bank of the storm crackled with electricity. The buzzing sensation grew worse, turning to a sort of nausea that centered in his head and chest more than in his stomach. Magic sputtered in the suit, little surges that dropped and rose, making them wobble on their path, down to nearly the tree tops. 

"Tony?" Steve yelled over the rising wind, sounding audibly worried even through the background noise. "Tony, we should—"

A sudden crosswind sent them tumbling. Instinctively Tony twisted Steve around to his front, locking his arms around his waist and clinging. Tree limbs crackled just under them, joining the buzz and nausea in one horrific, disoriented mix. East felt like a constant, a sure thing that was alternately directly in front of him or just under his feet. 

He fought to hold on to Steve as well as he could, but the armor wasn't listening and the rain slicking down leather and metal as well as any oil. Steve shouted as a thick branch caught them off guard. It yanked him from Tony's grip and out of sight. 

"Steve!" Tony tasted fire in the back of his throat, choking on it as the armor refused to turn, refused to _stop_. Another flash of lightning and everything just _dropped_ , even the false-east vanishing like a candle being snuffed and then coming back in every direction, all at once. 

Desperate, Tony reached up to his breastplate and grabbed the power-medallion planted in its center. It pulsed against his palm with an ugly, hot feeling, adding to the twisting in Tony's head. Yanking hard, it popped free with a hiss of displaced magic. In a crackle of breaking wood and dead limbs, he crashed down to the forest floor, landing with a hard thud and a splash of puddled rainwater. The medallion pulsed under his finger-tips, glowing icy blue under a thick coating of muck.

 _Ground._ Tony focused on the feeling of it at his back, cold mud and water seeping through his armor. Ground was _down_ , and sky was _up_. It didn't feel like down and up. It felt like forward and up and left-north-diagonal. If he closed his eyes and tried to close down the constant pull of directions, it tasted like blue summer, a waterfall of numbers singing in his head. _Better to be confused with the same sense,_ he decided, slowly pushing himself upright.

They'd flown far enough that thick woods had turned into even thicker ones, the branches hundreds of feet away and tightly woven as a piece of good brocade. The forest floor was that peculiar sort of bare that happened when the trees soaked up the sunlight. A few ferns curled their way around the massive trunks, and one or two particularly hardy shrubs had found toehold, but for the most part it was dead leaves and dirt. _Left-below-left-southeast-back_ he could make out the hole that he'd created when he crashed only by the way the rain fell more easily there than anywhere else. There was a no sign of a similar hole where Steve might have gone through.

 _Ground is down._ Keeping that thought fixed in his mind, Tony turned slowly, setting his footsteps at right angles so he knew that after four he'd finished the circuit. The hole in the canopy wasn't perfect. There was a faint angle to it from his velocity. As long as he hadn't somehow gotten turned around while flying blind, it was a fair bet that he'd come from that direction. 

Rain didn't fall so much as it oozed, a steady drip and splash. Lightning slashed through the sky overhead, lighting up the trees and making the shadows blur together. Each crash of thunder was met with a spike in the buzz behind his eyes. The headache had turned into a pounding, writhing mass that beat in time with the rain. 

Carefully, with knees that felt like water and didn't want to step right, Tony lined himself up with the angle and picked a tree directly ahead. It was like being drunk, but more so, worse than the time he, Happy and Bruce had experimented with some rotgut the humans made out of apples. Every step was an invitation to fall, another threat of buckling over and losing his way. He barely dared blink for fear of falling over. 

_North-up-south-up-east-down-down- **down** —_

When he reached his chosen tree, Tony planted his feet and braced himself, swallowing back the sharp burn in his stomach. "Steve?" he shouted, wincing when the sound made his head swim. "Steve, can you hear me?"

Nothing. No call back, no groan. Cursing, Tony forced himself upright, picked another tree, and started walking again. 

It took four trees before his calls earned an answering yell. _Sound_ was good, sound he could pin-point. He followed the noise, which was off to the _left-up-shoulder-back-north,_ slightly off of the line he'd been walking.

When Steve appeared out from behind a tree trunk, Tony nearly collapsed onto him in relief. "You're okay," he breathed, closing his eyes to try and block out the inconsistent directions. He didn't need to think about them now. Steve could do it, Steve and that idiot-paper he called a map.

"I'm fine. A little bruised, but fine." One of Steve's big palms cradled the back of Tony's neck, where the helmet and the shoulder armor left a gap. He was as coated with mud as Tony was, helmet streaked with brown and bright blue, scale mail crusted. "You didn't keep flying?"

"Of course I didn't leave you." Tony evaded as he pulled away, wobbling on his feet. _Ground is down._ "We should find somewhere to wait out the storm."

"My cloak's waterproof. It'll keep the worst off of us. Come on." Seeming to see that Tony was having trouble, Steve shifted his grip to Tony's hand. Tony clung tight and let himself be led. 

They found a nearly dry bit of ground, where a small hillock kept too much rainwater from puddling. Some carefully placed limbs and Steve's cloak didn't solve everything, but gave them a place to curl up together without getting much wetter. There wasn't room to stretch out, but Steve held out his arm and Tony leaned into him and closed his eyes against the bewildering muddle of directions. 

As it turned out, Steve's side was as certain as a tree or the ground to know where he was.

* * *

The storm didn't pass as fast as Tony would have liked, but the thunder and lightning died down after only three hours and took Tony's disorientation with it. As soon as he could be sure of not hitting his thumb, Tony dug out one of the stolen mage-locks to investigate how it worked as a way to pass the time. 

It was a fascinating little piece. The faerie silver only neutralized magical nature, only worked _inward_ , and even then only functioned when it was closed. There were more fail-safes on it than Tony even used when working with explosive spells. As long as it wasn't being worn, anyone could cast on it all they needed. 

"I think I'm going to make you a bracelet," Tony decided, bending the strip into a tight spiral. "Something to keep the cold off." 

Steve huffed and slid in closer to Tony's side. "I don't need anything like that. I'm fine." 

Which was, Tony had to admit, objectively true. He was a solid block of heat against the drizzle, like curling up under Rhodey or Jan's wing on a cold day. " _Now_ , you're fine, but I could feel you shivering up there. It's amazing you haven't gotten frostbite." 

One of Steve's arms slid around his shoulders. "Really, you don't—"

Tony huffed and bent his head to the bracelet. "Yes I do. Now shut up and pass me my pack. It has a hammer." 

He couldn't take off what made it dampen magic; that seemed to be worked into the nature of the metal, as much part of it as the silver it was from, as much a spell as changing shape was to a dragon. What he did do was put a locking spell on _that_ , just in case; Steve didn't look like he had any sort of magic in him, and on asking he said he didn't, but there was no telling with some people. On top of that, he layered a spell that would keep the worst of the water and cold off Steve. Without a proper forge he couldn't make it properly water-tight, but there was a lot of joy to be found in bludgeoning the thing to try.

Steve accepted the bracelet with a little more grace than he'd shown the proposal of making it, saying _thank you_ as if Tony had only passed him a drink, but Tony caught him twisting it around in his in his hands and smiling. 

About an hour after the last crash of thunder, Steve put on his new bracelet and they took off into the sky again, though it was still drizzling. Flying through rain was disgusting, making the breezes unsteady and occasionally blinding Tony with a sudden face full of water. They'd lost too much time to wait for it to pass, though. The storm had cost them most of the day.

It was late afternoon before the clouds parted, finally putting the sun at their back and evening on the coming horizon. In exchange they got a fresh, fair wind that was still warm with the last traces of autumn. The trees below glowed red and orange and brown with fall color, lit on fire after being washed clean. Below the Hydra River sparkled the same clear blue as the sky.

"Is it always like this?" Steve yelled over the rush of the wind. 

Tony had to laugh. "Sometimes it's better!" 

At sunset they touched down to eat a quick meal and to stretch their legs. They'd finally run out of forest, trading endless trees for gently rolling plains that were covered in shrubs and prickly vines. They both had to free themselves from the things more than once. 

The nagging sense of urgency that had worried Tony that morning had only gotten worse. He couldn't make himself sit down, could barely stand to eat the chunk of bread and cheese that Steve pressed on him. 

"We should camp for the night," he said reluctantly, looking up at the slowly darkening sky. "If we get up early tomorrow, we can make it just after sundown. Or take two short days and only be a day late." 

Steve watched from the spot of ground he'd cleared to stretch out on. "You don't mean that." 

He'd taken his helmet off, and was using it to balance his flatbread on while he spread some more cheese. Sunlight caught his hair and turned it to solid gold, fit to make any dragon's heart beat double time, and his eyes matched the sky and the river. Tony caught himself wishing Steve were a dragon instead of a human, and then laughed inwardly. If Steve were a dragon, he'd likely never have given Tony the time of day. 

Yanking himself out of his reverie, Tony shook his head and whipped around, walking three short strides before turning back and repeating them. "I don't want it, but I mean it. You need to rest; you're not in armor and you're not made to fly all day. We can pick up speed tomorrow if we have to."

A thoughtful expression crossed Steve's face. He finished spreading his cheese, wrapped the soft ball back in its waxed cloth, and then rolled it up. "You can fly at night, can't you?"

"Of course I can." Even if they ran into another thunder storm, that was what the stars were for. Not that Tony intended to let himself get knocked from the sky again. He should have listened to Rhodey's story better; if he hadn't been flying, he suspected that the effect wouldn't have been nearly so bad.

Steve took another bite. He took his time chewing, obviously using the chance to put his thoughts in order. When he finished, he nodded to himself and swallowed. "Then why don't we fly to the falls like we'd planned? Make a short night of it instead of a long day tomorrow."

"Because you'll be too exhausted to hang on?" Tony suggested, though his heart leapt at the chance to keep moving. 

Steve grinned. "Then don't drop me." 

Which was how they ended up traveling until past midnight. Flying at night was nothing like doing it during the day. Overhead, the stars were clearer than they ever were on the ground. Diamonds didn't compare. The moons cast a clear, steady light that turned the world below into silver and shadow. And then the second moon set, covering silver in a blanket of darkness, broken only occasionally by the glimmer of a house or town below, like little candles.

They nearly overshot the falls. Tony only noticed them by the sudden scent of water below, and the faint rush of the river. Without moonlight, the water was just a faint glimmer, more of a presence by its sound than anything else. By then, his magic was starting to tire, and he set them down gratefully at the edge of the riverbank. 

Steve's knees started to buckle for a second before he caught himself and straightened, cursing his back. Snickering, Tony managed to not say _I told you so_ , and set about taking off his armor. Rain and subsequent drying had stiffened the leather straps to wood, and this time it was his turn to curse. 

A shadow blocked the stars. "Here, let me," Steve murmured, strong hands plucking at the straps Tony had been fighting with on his breastplate. 

Sighing, Tony leaned into Steve and let him handle the armor. His headache had gone with the storm, but the echo of it played along the back of his skull. Steve's hands were wonderfully capable, loosening buckles that had been like rocks to Tony. The shoulder plates went first, with amazing quickness, followed by the breast plate and stomach guards. 

As they dropped, it seemed the itching pressure to _move_ went with them. When the hip armor was lifted off, Tony took a deep breath, and it felt like the first one he'd had all day. 

Warm fingers skimmed along his sides, drawing a low groan from Tony. Arousal flickered at the edge of his awareness, overshadowed by the knowledge that tomorrow was going to be even more difficult. "We shouldn't," he mumbled into Steve's shoulder. 

"I know. I just like touching you." Steve kissed his temple, where his helmet had matted the hair into a sweaty mess. "And you were worried about me not making it. Sit down, I'll make camp."

Tony wanted to protest, but the most he managed was a vague mumble. Now that he wasn't actively flying exhaustion had caught up with a vengeance. He found a clear patch of grass to sit on and managed to not fall over while lowing himself down. Steve had left the lower segments of the armor untouched. Luckily, the thigh plates and shin guards weren't as stiff as the rest of them. He still fumbled trying to get them off, and then again when it took time to pull the armored boots off. 

The camp Steve made was quick and rudimentary—a cleared spot for their shared pallet and another for the fire. There were a few shrubs and one or two scraggly trees that provided tinder for the night. Damp, half-rotted and brittle, Steve somehow got them lit into a small, cheery fire without asking Tony for magical help. Then he plied Tony with some fresh water from the river, a strip of dried meat from their dwindling supplies, and practically forced him to lie down. 

Through hazy, half-focused eyes, Tony watched as Steve banked the fire and stripped down out of his scale mail. When Steve slid under the bearskin cape next to him, he finally relaxed into sleep.

* * *

The kitchens of Aži-Táriyat were strange, more a butcher's than a place for food to be made. It reeked of blood and sweat and spices so potent that Natíl's nose locked up out of self-preservation the moment she stepped in. Animals were cooked whole, or nearly such, with only a faint touch of colorful vegetables for aesthetics. Off to the side, the new supervisor of the kitchens Jhemes was overseeing the butchering of a goat to tempt the king to eat—unlike the rest, it was being put on the plate raw, without even a sprinkle of spices. Jhemes watched the process with a stern eye, and only the most trustworthy of people handled the actual meat. 

For so straight-forward a process, the audience was thick and enraptured, dragons pressed in shoulder to shoulder in their wingless forms to make more room. Everyone knew the king had been poisoned. Lord Morgan made sure they never forgot it, with his storming about and insistence on being so very helpful trying to find the source. Everywhere had been checked and scrubbed, from the floors they all walked on to the torches that lit the rooms. Each suggestion started a new rush, a new panic. 

Political factions had lined up, egging on the frightened rest. If the king died, no one doubted that Morgan would be on the throne the next day. No one put any hope in the prince or his mother, who hadn't left the king's side in days. The only choices left were those who were eager to see Morgan take his place, and those who held out hope for a miracle. 

Natíl paused to watch the gory business for a moment, arms heavy with the queen's laundry. Though she was on a servant's errand, she was dressed in silks with her red hair done up with two sticks as befitted one of the queen's companions. Normally in the citadel, ladies in waiting weren't expected to do such things as carry laundry or cook meals. Since the king's illness it had become expected. Only those closest to the royal family dared be trusted. Naturally, they all did what they could, but there was always a shortage of hands.

Seeing the king's meal well and safely in hand, Natíl ducked around the watching dragons and continued on her task. She didn't mind carrying laundry down to be scrubbed. It gave her a chance to get out of the queen's rooms, that Hillsian-styled area where almost no one went other than herself and the other women. One of them—Bethany, a dragon who was surprisingly good at pretending humanity—had told her that the prince's rooms were there as well, but they'd been locked up while he was gone. 

Halls in the citadel were never straight-forward. Occasionally there were stairs, but only where there wasn't room for a slope or for a climbing wall instead. In many places, stairs had been hastily added at some point in the recent past, graceful marble curves that were at complete odds with the granite walls. Aži-Táriyat was a place made by nature as much as by dragon, some places carved from living rock and others left in their natural state. Vibrant colors and gilding were everywhere, the arched ceilings decorated with elaborate patterns and paintings, precious jewels and metals used where paint had been deemed insufficient. Even the servants' areas were rich with a king's ransom.

The laundry was another example of the extravagance dragons took for granted. A minimally used area, deep down in the mountain where hot water trickled in to form little pools, it still had rubies embedded in its walls. They formed the scales of a dark-haired mermaid as she seemed to rest at the edge of the water, eyes wicked and smile sweet. 

Since dragons seldom spent any real time in their human form, their clothing could last for months before it needed to be scrubbed. The only people in the citadel who used human attire with any frequency were the humans and the royal family. There was no reason for gems to be used in such an out of the way place, and yet they had been.

Next to the laundry was the bathing area, which was nothing more than a heated underground lake where occasionally fire dragons could be found hiding away from the winter cold. They detested it the way cats did water, with a deep passion and considerably hissing, and would rather sleep through the chill than anything else. Ice dragons, on the other hand, could spend days buried in the snowy courtyard, reveling in it until hunger drove them off. Heat of any sort left them uncomfortable and out of sorts.

So Natíl was surprised to hear the icy, crackling tones of an ice-dragon coming from the bathing room. She dropped off the laundry with the servants who worked there and kept walking, creeping now. The main entrance to the cavernous chamber was several floors above, where dragons didn't have to debase themselves by walking on two legs, but the humans had their own little inlet where they too could soak. Natíl hiked her skirt up around her hips and eased around the corner, stepping down into the water to join more jewel-scaled mermaids and human children that had been painted frolicking in the water. 

"—not come back. Do you think something happened to her?"

"Don't be ridiculous. Likely it's the wind. She was never a strong flier."

Someone long, long ago had built a wall out of rock that curved around to hide the humans' little nook. She pressed herself to it, inching along into deeper and deeper water, until it brushed up against the crux of her thighs and she didn't dare risk going farther without getting her skirts wet and raising suspicion. 

"If you've gotten her killed—"

"She was my friend as much as yours; she knew the risks when she went. _If_ she is gone, we will make arrangements."

"This has gone too far. You reek of human filth—how do we know you're not a human-lover like _them_?"

Dragon voices were different enough from human that she couldn't pin the owners. All ice-dragons sounded similar to her, and all fire-dragons the same. Ice crackled like frost would, if it could speak, rough and flat, with a snap like glass shattering. There were three of them, arguing with two others who had the low, hissing rumble of fire. 

Water splashed, sounding like a great wave. 

"You accuse me of obscenity? Of laying with one of those vile things? If you do, stand your ground on the field and I will happily show you the error of your belief."

A long pause, heavy with expectation. Natíl held her breath.

"No. Not accuse. But you went to that place—their capitol, where the king was brought low by their seductive wiles. It's a cursed place, a blight on the world." 

"A blight I have sworn we will do away with. Have I given you cause to doubt me? Any of you?" 

Someone touched her wrist. 

In the same heartbeat, Natíl whirled, free arm coming to block the expected blow with her elbow as she reached for one of her hair sticks. Pepper caught her wrist with a dragon's strength, pressing her finger to her lips. " _Hush_ ," she whispered. 

In the main chamber, the dragons had fallen to bickering among themselves, childish whining about the _human scourge_. Clutching her skirts in her free hand, Natíl let herself be led back into the hall, breath trembling in her chest. She hadn't heard her come up. Hadn't even felt the water move.

They got back to the hall, water dripping from Natíl's legs. Pepper didn't let go of her wrist, leading her farther down the corridor, in the opposite direction of the laundry. There was set of stairs there, leading up in a twisty curl that suggested they cut along the very edge of a rock wall. 

"Go up here," she instructed, firmly but gently. Her hands plucked the skirt from Natíl's and smoothed it down, laying it against her hips so it would wrinkle least from the water. Like Natíl, her hair was pulled back into twists and braids, held with a pair of hair sticks. Unlike her, the hair sticks were visibly lethal, shaped like little silver daggers. "This will take you directly to the great hall. Once you are there, go back to the kitchens. Her Majesty is feeling peckish." 

"Pepper, I—" 

"No." The finger was back, touching the edge of her lips. "No lies. I don't know why, but you have the queen's faith. Do not make me regret giving you mine." 

Natíl swallowed, licking her lips absently. "Thank you." 

"Just remember." Pepper gave her a long, analyzing look, and then turned to walk away. Natíl watched her back as she went, until she turned a corner and vanished.

 _The queen's faith._ Whatever that was, it might be a blessing. 

Telling her still-speeding heart to slow, Natíl—sometimes known as Natalia—turned and headed up the stairs.

She had to find Bucky.

* * *

[The butterfly construct danced and jiggled through the air](http://i1169.photobucket.com/albums/r514/phoenixmetaphor/rbb/bbtony_high.jpg), dropping little sparks of itself as it fluttered. The wings didn't quite line up right with its movements, and no butterfly in the world had ever been colored so brightly. Tony loved it, toddling after the trail of magic it left behind like it was a lure. The butterfly swiveled and danced, leading him a merry chase around the great hall, giggling. 

In the corner, his current minders—Rhodey and Jarvis—sat together, Jarvis' back to the dragon's great blue shoulder. Neither took their eyes off him as he ran in between the legs of larger dragons, sometimes dropping down on all four legs to pretend _he_ had wings too, leaping up to snatch at the butterfly's trail only to drop back down again with a squeal. Every once in a while Rhodey swung his tail, catching Tony in the stomach and spinning him around before setting him back down again, dizzy and delighted. 

_One day_ , he'd get wings like his Papa and Rhodey and the others, and then he'd fly all over the mountains just like the others did.

Something cold bounced into him from behind, sending Tony sprawling. "Look who it is. The _runt_."

Rhodey and Jarvis both leapt to their feet. "Lord Morgan, leave him alone," Rhodey growled, head lowered. "The queen said you weren't to bother him." 

"I _wouldn't_ if he'd fly like a _real_ dragon." Morgan lowered his head, cold breath leaving a frost of ice across Tony's cheeks. He was such a pale blue that he only didn't appear white when he was buried in snow, everything except the glowing blue marks that crossed his chest. "Well, little cousin? Can you fly?" 

Sniffling, Tony shook his head, but didn't cry. Papa _hated_ it when he cried. "Not— not yet."

Overhead, the dragon kit who was testing out his own wings in the dome of the great hall let out a cackle of laugher. It stopped when Rhodey lifted his head and hissed, but the sound made Tony huddle in on himself anyway. 

"And _that_ is because you're a mongrel. Mongrels don't fly." Morgan lifted his head, horns pressed back against his skull. "If you want to challenge me, do it on the field. Otherwise, get out of my way." 

Snarling, Rhodey stepped aside, and Jarvis rushed forward to scoop Tony up in a hug. Tony clung to his tunic, freshly scraped palms staining the light tan cloth. He watched Morgan go, trembling against the human retainer. 

"Are you all right?" Rhodey asked, bumping Tony with his nose. It was big enough that Tony could climb on it, and sometimes did, but just then all he wanted was more hugs. 

Stretching out an arm, he tried to wrap it around Rhodey's nose _and_ Jarvis, but [Rhodey was just too big for good hugs](http://i1169.photobucket.com/albums/r514/phoenixmetaphor/rbb/hugtime_full.jpg). "I'm okay," he promised with a deep sniff. "Jarvis?"

Jarvis rubbed between his shoulder blades. "Yes?" 

"It doesn't matter that Mama's a human, does it?" Tony bit his lip. "Everyone looks human sometimes."

Something softened in Jarvis' expression, and Tony found himself wrapped up in a hug so tight that he could barely breathe. "No, it doesn't matter at all. Your mother is a great woman and greatness shows, no matter what form someone takes."

Tony nodded against Jarvis' shoulder. "Do you think I'll be great too one day?" he asked, voice sounding tiny in his throat. "As great as Papa is?"

Rhodey's tail curled around them and up over Jarvis' shoulder to poke Tony in the cheek. He flinched and giggled, scrubbing an eye of illicit tears. The dragon grinned, horns coming up and eyes widening. "I think you're going to be even better."

* * *

Tony woke the next morning to a kiss and some more dried meat. The dream memory left him feeling oddly nostalgic for the days when his shortcomings could be wiped away with a well-meaning lie. He shook his head to be rid of the sensation and accepted the meat from Steve. "We're almost there. One more day." 

It was a full hour past dawn, and going by Steve's rumpled hair he had only woken a few minutes earlier. Tony tried to be annoyed at the time lost and found that he just couldn't. They needed to move, to hurry, but as tired as they'd been only losing an hour was likely the best they could have hoped for. He wasn't used to using the armor for such long periods at a go. It took more energy than he'd anticipated, the medallion sucking it out of him like a leech. 

Ways to streamline the spell toyed at the back of his mind, but he devoted only a little conscious thought to them as he chewed the unidentified meat. There wasn't time for that, wasn't time for _anything_. As he woke up, the same dreadful _tug_ became more prominent, as if he were a fish someone had hooked. The only thing keeping him from leaping up and donning the armor was knowledge that if he didn't eat he'd pay for it in speed. 

It occurred to him that the pull almost definitely wasn't natural. Urgency, yes, but the overwhelming urge to throw everything to the wind and _fly_ made no sense. His mother had matters under control, and his friends were no doubt working on finding the identity of the would-be assassin. An hour lost shouldn't have been enough to make his skin itch for the wind. 

Naturally or not, Steve seemed to feel it too. He finished his own food quickly and pulled out Tony's armor from its pack, setting it by his side ready for wear. It was streaked with mud still, leaves trapped in oddly placed joints. Steve's armor wasn't in much better shape. They looked like they'd been traveling for weeks rather than only a few days.

Maybe the prophetess would have a bath they could use, or the bay might be swim-able. Cold as it was, it was preferable to being grimy. Tony had heard that some humans barely bathed at all in winter, but dragons were fastidious by nature. There were thermal springs that provided large bathing pools in the citadel, and the queen's wing had spelled pipes that heated water. The thought of going too long without a wash made Tony's skin crawl.

Still chewing the last of his meal, Tony started buckling on his armor. Waiting overnight hadn't made the leather any more malleable, but it was easier on than off. He got it all on with only a little help from Steve, locking the medallion in place over his chest. As soon as he did, he felt the drain as it ate the little bit of energy sleeping had built up.

 _Almost there_ , Tony reminded himself, slipping an arm around Steve's waist and triggering the flight spell. He could have made better time if he'd left him, the way Steve had suggested the day before, but even with the grip of urgency around him he balked at the idea. Little sense to it as there was, he needed Steve with him, and the hook didn't seem to disagree. 

There was no pause to eat and stretch at midday. Tony let the armor dip down once and looked over at Steve, only to get a shake of the head in answer. _Keep going,_ it said, clearly as if he'd been speaking plain Ažiliasán.

By afternoon, scrub turned to even thinner scrub, and the twinkle of turquoise ocean on the horizon. The Bay of Silks was a long stretch of crescent-shaped coast on the eastern edge of the Seven Hills. The upper half was nothing but desert, endless stretches of sand and—farther north—ice that couldn't support human towns. Nomadic clans of dragons were said to make their home there, working in harmony with humans of the same sort to survive the harsh landscape. 

On the southern horn of the bay, a strange settlement hugged the beach. From above it looked somewhat similar to some of the farming communities they'd passed over on their journey. Fields stretched out in neat squares and rectangles, some of them fallow but some green with crops Tony couldn't recognize at a glance. Small boats bobbed in harbor, no doubt fishing to supplement the winter stores. 

Unlike the other communities they'd passed, the town was built on a spiral, a single endless loop cut through only by small walkways set at odd, seemingly random intervals. At the center of the spiral was a gleaming temple made, not of the usual limestone or marble, but of volcanic glass. The glare of the late afternoon sun off the roof alone was nearly blinding, forcing Tony to veer slightly north to see properly. It sat in the middle of the city and sparkled like a jewel set in some elaborate crown.

Steve tugged at his arm insistently, pointing to a clearing just outside the strange town. They finished their circuit before Tony set down, knees and shoulders aching oddly, as if he'd walked the distance rather than flown. He flipped up his faceplate and took a deep breath of fresh, faintly salty air. The exhaustion was nearly as bad as it had been the night before. Shaking it off wasn't easy, but he didn't have a choice. They were too close to bother resting. 

"Are you going to be okay?" Steve tilted his head to give Tony a soft look. It wasn't a full night of rest, but it sparked a fresh energy in his veins. 

"I'm fine. Nearly there, right?" Tony grinned and snapped his faceplate back in place. It brushed his in-coming beard with an odd, uncomfortable prickle. "Come on, maybe there'll be a razor waiting."

The main spiral of the town was cobbled with clean, neat little stones that locked together as if they'd been carved from a single piece of rock. Pale buildings seemed to be the norm, made out of a pink-white sort of stone and occasionally added to with equally pale wood. There were no markets that Tony saw, nor shops. There was no sign of commerce at all, though they passed wagon loads of what looked like goods, and more than one porch had someone using the daylight for fine stitchery. 

People in brightly colored clothing watched them with curious expressions as they walked through the city. There was, at first glance, nothing tying any of the residents together. Skin tones ranged from dark as Rhodey's to light as Steve's, passing through a ruddy tan and golden on the way. Some people were dressed in the familiar loose pants and over tunics that Tony knew from home, others in the longer style of the Seven Hills, and still more loose draping fabric that only barely allowed for modesty. 

What they had in common, Tony realized eventually, was that they were all happy. There wasn't a single beggar in sight, and the people they saw at work seemed pleased to do it, happy to hand over fruit and bolts of cloth without apparent payment, singing cheerfully as they hauled water. 

Put together, it gave Tony chills. It wasn't _natural_. Even in Aži-Táriyat there was a barter trade going at all times of year. Dragon-mined ores were especially sought after in the west, and there was nothing so fine as dragonsilk from the worms that were found only in the deep caves in the heart of the Neshell Mountains.

The unease Tony felt seemed to have affected Steve, too. "This place isn't real," he murmured under his breath, edging closer to Tony. "Where are the children?"

With a shock, Tony realized that he was right. The youngest person visible was nearly full grown. There was no sight of the grubby children that _should_ have been there, either playing or working or some combination of both. Tony hadn't spent any real time with humans before, but he knew that they had children quickly and plentifully. 

Without conscious thought, Tony's hand gripped Steve's between them. "This doesn't seem like such a brilliant plan anymore."

Steve squeezed Tony's fingers, which would have been more reassuring if didn't keep gripping them tight. "The Priestess will have your answer."

"But at what cost?" 

There was no answer for that. 

As they got closer to the center of the spiral, the buildings grew larger, more official. Bits of volcanic glass started to show up as ornaments, first as wind chimes and then as patterns and murals set into the walls of the buildings. The people changed too, tunics and leggings turned to robes and flowing skirts.

And then the temple. It was set behind a massive set of copper and brass gates, decorated with patterned star bursts and broken—apparently deliberately—off their hinges. A woman waited between then, wearing an open white robe and not much else. A short, sheer skirt made a pretense of obscuring the view of her hips, but there was nothing blocking her breasts but the fall of her long blond hair.

She nodded to them, once each, with a grace and formality that reminded Tony of his mother. Her eyes were like chips of ice, hard and frozen blue. "Anthony of Aži-Táriyat, Steven of the Seven Hills. I am Emma, a priestess here. Come, and be welcome within these walls."

"You knew we were coming." Suspicion laced Tony's voice. "How?"

Her lips curled into an arrogant smirk. "You are here to see a prophetess, aren't you?" She tilted her head, eying them with obvious disdain. "You cannot see the High Priestess like that. Please follow me and you will be shown a place where you may refresh yourselves and given attire appropriate for your visit."

Without waiting to see if they would follow, she turned on a bare heel and led them through the courtyard. Steve had turned bright red, looking as if he wanted to object but couldn't find the words for it. Grinning under his faceplate, Tony wrapped his arm around Steve's and tugged him along.

"Be nice to the priestess," he whispered lightly, not bothering to make it low enough for actual privacy. "Staring is rude for humans, isn't it?"

"She has a lot to stare at," Steve answered, flashing a quick, embarrassed smile.

The priestess did, actually, have a lot to stare at. Even from the back, it was clear that her robe was cut to be flattering to her figure. It hugged her waist and flared around her hips and knees, flashing silver at her ankles as she led them along a curving path paved with smooth stone. It meandered through a flowering courtyard littered with trees and beautifully tended shrubs. Wind chimes danced in the breeze, underlying the murmur of voices. 

_Here_ was where the children were, gathered in quiet groups around scrolls and wax tablets. People in robes similar to Emma's, though mostly with more on underneath, wandered from group to group. One had set up with a collection of children near a wall and was using a stick of charcoal to sketch a diagram on it that Tony recognized from his mother's lessons when he was a kit. Another seemed to have put together some sort of counting game out of round, painted stones and was playing it with a set of little ones barely old enough to be walking. 

Emma led them to a building set apart from the rest. Trees ringed it in a thick copse of out of season flowers and leaves, casting thick shade on the grounds. When she pushed the door open, steam wafted out in delicate tendrils, scented with more lavender and spices Tony couldn't recognize. 

"This is the bathing house," she explained, touching something on the wall that made mage lights flicker to life in little glass globes. The first room was plain, with a few benches and empty racks. "It will have everything you require. Take as long as you need. After, there are appropriate altars to the Seven Nameless Gods of the Hills if you would like to make use of them." Icy blue eyes peered at Tony scornfully. "We also have one for the Wing Mother, but I doubt you will bother to use it. Leave your things here and they will be collected by attendants." 

"And if we don't want our things to be collected?" Tony asked, looking around the room. No other people were visible, but that didn't mean they weren't lurking out of sight, waiting to make off with his armor the second he took it off. 

"Then your need to see the High Priestess must not be so great as your pride." The serenity in her expression was unlined by a sour smugness that made Tony's teeth ache to snap at her. "We do not allow weapons within the temple proper."

Steve's hand touched Tony's elbow, thumb resting in the gap of the armor plates. "You're all temple servants here, aren't you?"

She nodded slowly, as if she expected a trick from the question. "Our community is dedicated to the service of the gods— _all_ the gods, Anthony of Aži-Táriyat, even Ashkárá Wing Mother, whom you and yours neglect direly."

"You're not going to trust them just because they're priests, are you?" Tony demanded, not at all upset by the passing reference to his own goddess. Dragons took religion lightly, only paying the mother her due at hatchings, deaths and the occasional time in between. 

Something about the temple didn't sit right with him. He didn't know what it was other than a twisting in the back of his head. It smelled like secrets and good intentions. Neither had ever really done him much good. He'd known more than one priest that had been untrustworthy; they were usually the ones who made the most effort at being pious.

"And also because they already have us surrounded and knew we were coming." Steve let go of Tony's arm and started stripping off his mail. "If they wanted to do us harm, they could have just swarmed us when we arrived."

Emma snorted. "Your faith is overwhelming." She stepped away from the door, gesturing them in. "Toss your journey to meaninglessness and ashes if you like. I have other duties to attend. Blessings upon you." With a nod, she turned and walked away, vanishing behind the trees.


	6. Chapter 6

Tony was still standing in the doorway by the time Steve finished stripping his mail and putting it on one of the racks. With the faceplate down it was impossible to see his thoughts, but Steve had a guess at them. 

"If you're not going to trust them, then why did you come?" he asked, settling his shield with the curved face up. It gleamed with dust from travel and smears of mud that he hadn't had time to get off. His boots were next, an aching relief for his feet. The inside edge of his right foot had developed a blister that could only have been from flying, where bracing himself on Tony's boot had rubbed it. "You may as well take you armor off and at least enjoy the bath."

With a crack of metal, Tony freed his faceplate and lifted the helmet. His black hair stuck out every which way in sweaty spikes. "Trusting them with the cure for the king isn't the same thing as trusting them with my armor."

"I'd have thought it would be easier." The room wasn't as thick with steam as it could have been, but Steve still found himself starting to sweat. From inside the building, he never would have guessed that winter had already sunk his claws in. 

"No. Harder. Much harder." Tony held his helmet to his stomach, shoulders hunched forward and expression tight. The gold and red enamel were starting to bead with moisture. "Would you let them tie you up?" 

"What?" That brought Steve to a stop in the middle of putting the packs up. "What's that mean?"

"Me giving up the armor is like tying _you_ up." Tony's fingers flexed against the helmet, as if he expected someone to appear and yank it from his hands. His nostrils flared slightly, maybe taking in things Steve couldn't even guess at—the pervasive scent of lavender overwhelmed everything. "I'll be trapped. I don't like it, and I don't trust anyone who says that I have to do it." 

A few possible comments crossed Steve's mind, starting with _you'll still have your magic_ and _now you know how humans feel_. He shook them off as likely to start a fight and smiled instead. "Well, they're not tying me up, are they? If something happens, we'll be in it together." 

Tony stared at him, eyes wide and just a little wild around the edges. "Will we?" 

Carefully, Steve finished settling his travel pack and then padded barefoot to Tony. He didn't resist when Steve took the helmet and set it aside, or when he took Tony's hands between his. They were cold, tense as his expression and curled tightly around Steve's. "What's wrong?"

"I don't know. I just..." The adam's apple in Tony's throat bobbed. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead into Steve's shoulder. "I'm being stupid. I've just never been around this many humans at once before. That has to be it." 

"You were fine at the garrison," Steve reminded him. He curled his fingers around the back of Tony's neck. The short hairs there were curling in the moist heat, tangling around Steve's fingers.

"In shouting distance of home." Like a spring uncoiling, Tony's shoulders loosened, though they never quite relaxed entirely. "I'll be fine. Let's just— let's just get an answer and get out of here."

Steve smiled and rubbed his thumb along the base of Tony's skull. "Camping in the woods some more, huh?"

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I've slept in worse places." Leather creaked as Steve pulled away from Tony and reached for the straps on the armor. "You'll feel better once you get clean. Come on."

Tony was pliant as Steve stripped him out of the armor. Like Steve's, the linen tunic and leather trousers underneath were damp with sweat, sticking them to Tony's skin. The tunic outlined strong pectoral muscles Steve still hadn't seen, for all that he'd had Tony's cock inside him. When he reached to take it off Tony twitched out of his hold. Steve let it go as just another oddity of many. 

Maybe dragons were embarrassed about nipples. 

They stowed everything they'd been told to and made their way through the only other door there was. Behind it was a cloud of steam thick enough to chew. It obscured everything farther than a few feet away, which was just enough to see the uneven edge of a natural pool. The floor was partly rock, partly sand and partly wood, with benches lining the walls Steve could see. It reminded him of the bath houses in Vítahil, though rougher and less organized. 

Someone surged out of the water at their feet, sending them jumping back "Hello!" she smiled, dark eyes glinting with good humor. Her arms locked on the edge of the pool to hold herself out of the water. "I've never seen you here before."

If Steve's face hadn't already been red from the heat, he would have blushed in an instant. The way she held herself left only her hips and legs out of sight, and that only barely. He could clearly make out the individual streams of water running down her full breasts and torso. Not even her hair hid anything; the long, black curls were pushed behind her shoulders, out of the way. "I— we're— I'm sorry, we didn't know we were disturbing anyone."

She laughed and fell back into the water with a loud splash. Floating on her back, she used her arm to sweep a little wave of water at them. It surged up over the edge, flooding their toes. The kick pushed her out of sight in the steam. "You're not disturbing anyone. Come in and get clean. You look like you could use a good soak."

Wordlessly, Steve glanced over at Tony. The bathhouses in Vítahil weren't separated by sex, but Steve had never been comfortable in the public pools. He'd always preferred to use one of the smaller ones set out of the way. 

Tony looked as perturbed as Steve felt, fingers wrapped in the hem of his tunic. "Maybe we shouldn't," he whispered, bending his head toward Steve's. "Something's fishy here. We can just... Come back later." 

"Or you can come in now." Water splashed. Steve had just enough time to see a swirl of dark hair and a sweet smile before two slender hands grabbed his knees and yanked. He toppled into the warm water, barely remembering to take a breath before his head went under. A soft body cradled his as they sank to the bottom. No matter how hard he struggled, he couldn't pull free. 

Even underwater, he heard the woman's giggle, clear as bells ringing. Warm, full lips pressed against his, forcing them open and breathing air into his lungs. Opening his eyes the water was surprisingly clear, without any of the sting he would have expected from a natural spring. The strange woman pressed a finger to her lips and pointed up.

They broke the surface somewhere in the middle of the pool. There was no sign of the edge, or even any way to tell which way he'd come from. Tony's voice echoed in the room, bouncing off the walls and coming at him from every direction at once.

"Steve! _Steve_! Where are you? _Damned_ — Steve!" Water splashed frantically. 

Steve opened his mouth to call back, but a hand covered it from behind. As if compelled, his mouth closed again. "Shhh," the woman whispered into his ear. Full breasts pressed against his back, and he thought he felt the kick of someone treading water. "Watch. Listen. This is important." 

Tony's calling had degenerated into curses and prayer in that same, liquid language that had Steve so puzzled. He was helpless to do more than keep his head above water as Tony's calls got more and more desperate. 

"Where is he?" Tony finally demanded at a roar that made the water tremble. "Let him go!" 

"He's safe, I promise." The arms restraining him finally let go as the woman arched over his shoulder. Out of the corner of his eye, Steve caught a flash of deep crimson, and then it was gone again. "You may as well come in the water, your Highness. A bath is good for the soul, and I would say yours needs a good scrub."

_Your Highness?_

"Witch." The liquid, hissing syllables echoed in the room. "Let him go!"

In the distance, Steve thought he saw a flash of dark curls. He tried to move toward them, but his legs wouldn't cooperate any more than his voice would. If he focused, he could make himself stop treading water, but the only thing that got him was a mouth full of water when he sank. 

"Why would I do that? He's mine, isn't he?" The woman's voice was soothing, even in the strange language. "Do you know how rare his soul is? Human-souled dragons are numbered in the thousands, but a human with a spirit of fire and ice? A dragon born into a human body? Fifty, your Highness. Only fifty." 

"I don't care if he's one of a million or one of a kind! Give him back!"

"Stubborn, just like your mother." Another break in the steam showed a bit of shoulder, gleaming with droplets of water. It vanished, like the other glimpse, but it lasted longer. "It's a shame he's not a woman. I would be interested in knowing what your children would be." 

"I—" Steve heard Tony hesitate, the sharp intake of air that he sometimes did when he was thinking. "What do you mean?" 

"Know your past, Prince Anthony of Aži-Táriyat, son of Howard and the Maria Prior, and know your future. Did you never wonder why your species so parallels humans? Why, against all odds, your mother was able to carry your father's kit? You are far from the first born of both worlds. There is more to who and what you are than the form you take. I would have thought you, of all people, would know that."

The silence that followed was solid enough that Steve could hear his own heartbeat. The heat and water were getting to his head, making it feel as if he'd drank too much wine of an evening. _The Maria Prior?_ That couldn't be. The entire war was because she'd been kidnapped—

Steve's stomach lurched.

—by the dragon king?

"... Who are you?" Tony's whisper cracked the quiet like a hammer against delicate glass. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Wanda. My name is Wanda. And I have been waiting twenty and five years to meet you, Prince." 

Steve closed his eyes. Tony was a prince. Not just _a_ prince— _the_ prince, the one in line to take the dragon king's throne. And Steve— he had a dragon's soul? But that couldn't be right. He definitely wasn't a dragon. He couldn't change shape, or fly, or any of the things that made dragons what they were.

_But if that's what makes a dragon, then what's Tony?_

He had to get out of whatever spell Wanda had put on him, and there was only one way he could think to do it. Taking a deep breath, Steve concentrated and forced his legs to stop working. Almost immediately dark waters closed over his head and his lungs started burning. _Down, down, down,_ until his feet touched the bottom, and then his knees. Something shrieked overhead, bouncing off rock and slicing through the water like a dagger. Deep scarlet flashed in front of his eyes and then arms were around his shoulders, forcing him to float upwards.

"You stupid, stupid human!" Wanda hissed in Steve's own language as soon as they were clear of the water. Fear widened her eyes and had made her go pale under the red flush from the steam. "I told you to listen, not to drown!"

"Then maybe you shouldn't cast spells on him!" Strong arms yanked Steve out of Wanda's grip. A familiar callused hand pressed to his throat, and suddenly Steve's voice unlocked. He started coughing, buckling forward in Tony's arms as he re-learned how to breathe.

Wanda darted away, staying well out of grabbing range. "It was necessary," she protested, but a weak edge to her voice betrayed her. Without seeming to make any effort she circled them, hair streaming around her shoulders. "You never would have told him, and then the lines would diverge."

"What do you mean, told him?" 

Steve gripped Tony's hand where it was around his waist. "Prince," he explained between rasping breaths. 

The arm around him tightened, and Tony's feet stopped kicking for half a beat in shock. "You understood that?" 

"Of course he did. I told you he's dragon-souled." The slow, menacing circle moved just behind them and stopped. Steve twisted, trying to keep an eye on Wanda, but Tony kept them from moving too much. They were both still dressed, and the leather threatened to weigh them down. Tony's under-tunic floated around them like the trailing end of a skirt, silk fluttering in the water.

From far, far too close for Steve's nerves, she whispered, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt him." 

"Will you let us go?" Steve asked. He made an attempt to pull away from Tony, but he was held tight, the way Tony had held on to his helmet just minutes before. He wondered if it was for comfort, for safety, or for some combination of both. "No more games."

"No more games." Quick as blink, she was back in front of them. Her earlier cheer was gone, leaving grave, cold concern written across her face. "This way. It's shallower, and you can at least take your clothing off. The attendants will have robes for you when you're done." 

In short little strokes, she led them over to the side of the pool where the water only came up to waist-high. Steve's knees felt shaky and his throat burned, but feeling ground under his feet was more a relief than he could have dreamed. Embarrassed but eager to be rid of the soaked clothing, he stripped off his sodden shirt and pants, having to squirm to free the leather from his skin. 

Uncharacteristically, Tony hesitated, plucking at the edge of his over-tunic. "I..." 

Their guide stayed low in the water, only little ripples showing where her hands were. "You may as well," she said mildly. "He already knows." 

Wet hair flopped into Tony's eyes as he shook his head. In quick, determined motions, he grabbed both shirts at once and pulled them off overhead. If Steve hadn't been sure of the truth of things before, he would have been then. Blue lines crossed Tony's chest, faintly glowing as they curled around each other into a symbol he'd seen before. It was impossible to miss on the field, blazoned as it was on the dragon king's breast.

Tony eyed Steve with something like worry. "You're angry," he said flatly. "Go ahead and say it. I should have told you."

"No," Steve replied, and was surprised that it was true. Hurt, maybe, but he didn't have enough right to Tony to be angry. "It's your secret to keep. I can see why you wouldn't have wanted me to know right away. I would like to know why that never changed, though."

The expression on Tony's face said that he didn't believe it, but he turned away to throw his clothes up onto the side next to Steve's. His back flexed, muscles gleaming as he bent to take off his trousers. "Why? Because it doesn't change anything. I'm not a prince here, I'm just a mongrel with a knack for magery. 

Steve winced at his tone. "Tony—"

"Don't."

"Yes, don't. You have more important matters to attend, don't you?" Wanda had stolen up on them while they talked, still staying low in the water. "Like that question you wanted to ask me." She curved between them like a snake, ducking low so she was only a blur under dark water. When she popped out, it was a good twenty feet away, near a rocky ledge. It was only a few inches under water, enough that Steve could see it had been polished smooth.

The talk between them would have to wait. "Ask _you_?" Steve asked, turning to make sure he kept her fully in sight. After the tricks she'd pulled, he didn't trust her to keep her word. "Why would we need to ask _you_ anything?" 

Tony had the same idea. He leaned against the edge, visibly ready to move. "Because she's the priestess. Aren't you?" 

Wanda smiled like an angel and lifted herself up, twisting to sit on the ledge. [From her hips down, her skin turned to glittering pink scales](http://i1169.photobucket.com/albums/r514/phoenixmetaphor/rbb/merwanda_high.jpg), with long flowing fins that fanned out in front of her and faded out to ruby red. "I am... Something of the sort. And you two have come a long way to see me."

Closing his eyes, Steve took three slow, deep breaths before opening them again. The vision in front of him didn't change. "I thought mermaids were only legends." Everyone had heard of them, of course. They were stories sailors brought back from their trips, filled with shining cities made of metal and creatures that flew without wings, nothing like the solid reality of the everyday world. 

Laughing, she leaned back onto the ledge, which Steve could now see must have been designed for lounging on by someone without normal legs. "Hardly a maid any longer. But yes, my people think the same of humans. Strange fantasy creatures with legs instead of good fins, clumping around on the land instead of down in the depths where the gods intended."

"My mother told me about them." Tony's voice was strangled with some indefinable emotion. He stepped closer, water lapping at the bottom of his ribs. "She said that if you please them, they'll tell you your future."

A nostalgic smile curled Wanda's lips. Her fins curled up under her, bending in ways legs never could. If she'd had knees, she would have been holding them. "Your mother was one of my favorites. When I told her of the paths before her feet, I never dreamed she would find a third option. So few choices, but she made her own." 

"You knew his mother? The—" Steve licked his lips, tasting the odd scent that was in the water. "The queen?" 

One of Wanda's bare shoulders rolled. Dark eyes peeked out at them coyly from behind damp lashes. "She was one of mine, before the world swallowed her whole and her path led her away from me. Tell me Prince, is she happy now, as queen? I cannot touch her any longer. Not since she left my arms."

"Very happy," Tony said, wholeheartedly. "She loves my father, and Aži-Táriyat. Please—" He stepped forward, and must have hit a ledge because suddenly he was treading water. "Help me. My father's dying. If you loved my mother, save him."

"Just like her, aren't you? Always knowing what strings to pull to bend another's heart to your whims." Wanda's eyes slid closed, a hint of moisture curving down her cheek that Steve suspected wasn't just from her wet hair. As her skin dried, the golden hue of it became more readily apparent, as if she'd been kissed by the sun. "For the secrets you demand, what will you pay me, Anthony of Aži-Táriyat?"

"Pay?" Putting aside his misgivings, Steve stepped up next to Tony, taking care not to lose his footing in the same way. "No one said anything about payment?"

"Then you were not listening." The Priestess didn't move other than to speak, as if she were a statue. "Anthony spoke of the price for a mermaid's wisdom. Offer something which pleases me, and you will have what you wish." 

"I don't—" Tony's head dipped in the water. "I could redesign your temple. Show you the spell that would give you legs. I—I could make you _wonders_."

Still she sat like a stone, unmoved. "I taught your mother, who taught you. For sixty-three generations, through the line of her predecessors, I have been content here with my people. Before that, I swam the sea with your father's great-great grandfather, before your kingdom was even conceived. There is nothing your magic can give me." 

Tony seemed stricken. "That's— that's all I have, though. My magic. I don't have anything else." Once again, Tony started to drop down below the water, as if he'd forgotten to keep moving. Steve reached out and snagged his arm, tugging him back in to the shallower portion. He came unresisting, letting himself be dragged like a bag of grain. Against the underside of Steve's forearm, the dragon king's crest pulsed softly. 

"Do you think so?" Her head came up to stare at them, an inexplicable sadness crossing her face. "Do you truly think that is all you have to offer? Trinkets?" 

"What about a companion?" Steve heard himself say. Like an arrow her eyes were on him, piercing to the core. Swallowing back sudden anxiety, he barreled on. "You're lonely, aren't you? You miss Tony's mother." 

"Steve—" Tony twisted in his grip, giving a sharp kick that knocked his elbow into Steve's ribs. "Steve, don't. This is my price."

"Quiet, sweet Prince." Her eyes narrowed at them, lips pulled back in a snarl to reveal unexpectedly sharp teeth. "Do not promise what you cannot give, Steven of the Seven Hills," she hissed. "Your paths do not end here. Neither of you will stay with me, and it is a cruelty to suggest it."

Nerves clenched Steve's stomach. Thousands of years old, and the person who trained a line of mages; what could she do if they angered her? He didn't want to find out. "Not us— but we'll find someone. Someone who won't leave you."

Her eyes stared through them, unfocused and unseeing. They bled to red at the edges, slowly turning scarlet. "Yes.... Yes, his path has crossed..." she whispered, as if to herself. Slowly, she uncurled her fins. Red light glowed at the tips of her fingers, leaving lines behind as she traced them through the water. 

Shapes formed and reformed, bouncing off each other, turning the water into an endless mirror of changing lines. They spread out in little waves, pushing all the way to the edges of the water. When they brushed past Steve and Tony the curved around him into intricate knots and rings. Everywhere they touched felt like the smooth slide of scales running across his skin. 

When she spoke, it was only a whisper, but it rang clear as a bell. "The king has been tainted by the venom of the water dragon named Hydra that sings in the bottom of the mirrored pool of Vítahil. His fire flickers under its weight, failing to hold alight the candle of life."

 _Vítahil._ Steve thought he might be ill. It had to be Bucky and Lady Natasha. Who else would have been able to get something so rare? 

Wanda kept speaking, either unaware or uncaring of Steve's anguish. "Dragons are hardy, too much for any normal poison or quick death, even for a poison so powerful. It must be administered slowly, dose by dose, until the soul flees its shell and flies to the nest of the great mother Ashkárá. Time is the cure you seek. Cease the dosing while keeping him anchored, and he may yet recover." She closed her eyes, shoulders heaving in a sigh. The lines in the water glimmered and sank, vanishing beneath the waves.

"That's it?" Tony demanded, finally pushing free of Steve's arms. "That's all you'll say? What about the poisoner's identity?

"It is all I can say." Wanda moved slowly, bracing her arms to lift herself upright. Everything about her spoke of exhaustion. "You wish the future to be clear and uncomplicated as a still pond. It's not. It rages like the sea in a storm, chaos incarnate. I can drink only a sip of the water. Anymore, and it will consume me." 

Steve felt he should step in, before Tony said something dangerous. "Thank you," he said as firmly as he could. "That helps." 

She smiled, a tiny, tired quirk of her lips, and slid off the ledge into the pool. "Remember your promise, Steven of the Seven Hills. Those who break their word to a mermaid oft rue the day." 

Flipping her fins, she dived. No matter how long Steve watched and waited, she didn't come back up again.

* * *

Tony floated on his back in the now blissfully mermaid-free water. Uncharitably, he thought that if she'd been the same when his mother had been at the temple, he wasn't surprised she'd run away with his father. The tidbits Wanda had given them were useful, in the same way that a box of scraps was useful. It could be patched together, but the work needed was rarely worth the result.

At least he was getting clean out of it. It wouldn't help him in finding the assassin and stopping them, but he didn't itch anymore. He still had a beard coming in, but with luck there would be a razor and a piece of mirror to borrow.

"Tony?" Steve caught his hand while he drifted by, pulling him against firm muscles and soft skin. "Are you okay?"

"Only wondering if I've wasted three days when I could have been by my father's side." Opening his eyes, Tony looked up into Steve's softly concerned ones. "He could be dead by the time we get back, because I went hunting griffins."

Pain passed through Steve's eyes. "Because of _my_ people. If he dies..." 

Reaching up, Tony gripped Steve's face by both cheeks and pulled him down into a kiss. Upside down it was strange, tongues and chin and nose not lining up as they ought. But it was good, a rush of heat that made his toes curl.

When the kiss broke, Tony looked up at Steve from only a few inches away. The water had flattened his hair to his skull, turning it dark gold. Water slid down his skin in slow trickles that made the tip of Tony's tongue ache to follow them. "It won't come to that," Tony promised, without the slightest idea of how he'd keep it. "We'll leave out tonight, get back home and..." And take Steve's friend prisoner. He'd be ripped to shreds, at best. When your enemy had eternity, you didn't trust in slow justice. "And stop it. Somehow."

Water dripped onto Tony's cheeks when Steve shook his head. "I know you'll have to capture him, Tony. Don't mince words."

"We'll figure something out." Maybe Tony could fly Steve's friend out of the mountains. As long as the poisoning stopped, it didn't matter how. People would have questions, but the King would recover. It might even be better that way; if his father suspected the Maria was behind it, they might retaliate anyway, even though the attempt failed.

Steve smiled, without much feeling. "Thank you. I—"

Double splashes of water cut him off. Immediately Tony pushed free and twisted to his feet, standing back to back with Steve. Two boys, a blond and a brunette, had popped out of the water at the far end of the pool. The dark-haired one dived again, flashing a dark tail with the same red fins as Wanda. He popped up again just out of arm's reach.

"Sorry to interrupt, but you two need to get out of here."

"What's that mean?" Steve's back was close enough that Tony could feel the faint tremble in his muscles. "Who are you?"

"I told you we shouldn't have snuck up on them," the blond muttered. He swam forward, thickly muscled arms moving him with nearly as much ease as his green fins. "I'm Teddy, he's Billy. We were sent to save you. The First of Seven have shown up asking for you, with mages and soldiers. Priestess Emma said to take you through the tunnels. You can come back for your things once they've left."

"That's awfully convenient timing," Tony muttered, watching the merboys warily. After the way Wanda had played with Steve, he didn't trust the way they were circling, like vultures waiting for a chance to swoop in. "What, Wanda send word out when we left the mountains? I bet it would suit her if we got captured." 

Billy's chin lifted with conviction. "She wouldn't do that."

"Hey! You're not helping." Teddy swiped an arm of water at Billy. "Look, we're giving you a chance to escape. Do you want to take it or not?"

The body heat at Tony's back vanished. "Tony, you go with them." 

"Steve, no—" He turned to see Steve lifting himself out of the pool, skin gleaming. The merboys looked on appreciatively. He bared his teeth and hissed at them before scrambling to follow Steve. "Don't even think about it. I'm not leaving you here."

"They're probably here for me. If I turn myself in, you'll be able to get back to the mountains and stop Bucky." Reaching for his clothes, Steve touched his trousers and seemed to realize the impossibility of putting on tight, wet leather in a hurry. 

"There's clothes waiting in the main room," Billy piped up, earning another glare from Tony and a grateful nod from Steve.

"Don't be absurd. If they knew you would be here, they knew you didn't come alone." Before Steve could get away, Tony grabbed his arms and dug in his heels. "I won't go without you. I can't."

Steve turned soft, confused eyes on him. Then his expression hardened. "You're right. Of course—you need me to identify Bucky."

"That's not—" 

"Are you two coming or not?" Billy splashed in a frantic circle. "They can't hold them off forever!"

Tony tangled his hands in his hair and gave a good, hard yank. There just wasn't _time_. "We can't run. If I leave my armor here, we can't fly. It'll just be wasted time. And what happens to the temple if they think they're hiding us?" 

"The Maria wouldn't order anyone to hurt priests." Conviction colored Steve's voice from start to finish. "They'll leave it alone." 

Out of the corner of his eye Tony saw the merboys exchange doubtful looks.

"She ordered my father killed, Steve," Tony said flatly, and Steve winced. "Pardon me if I don't give her much credit for integrity. Can we risk it?"

"So we fight our way out?" Steve shook his head. "I can't do that. These are _people_ —"

Tony growled, sharp and low, more like a dragon than he'd ever managed before. "And Naia was too," he snapped, "but you didn't seem to mind killing her."

"I—" Steve's expressions chased each other across his face, nearly as clear as if he'd had wings and a tail to broadcast them. Anger, stubbornness and—inexplicably—guilt lined up for viewing. The guilt was the one that stayed, joined by a bleak surety that didn't look right on Steve. "You're right. We don't have a choice, do we?"

"No, we don't." Tony looked back over his shoulder. "Go find somewhere safe, you two. We'll take care of this."

"But you could escape—" Teddy protested.

"No, we can't." Grabbing up his still-sopping clothes, Tony bundled them into a tight ball, trotting in the direction of the door. He couldn't fly in wet clothes any more than Steve could speed-wiggle into them. They'd have to sit in the pack and wait until there was a moment to dry them. 

The boys had been honest about the dry outfits waiting in the main room. They were plain knee-length robes and loose trousers, without much in the way of ornamentation. _Good enough._

In all his life, Tony had never gotten dressed and into the armor so quickly. Steve looked to be settling a similar record, slipping his still-muddy mail on over his borrowed robe so quickly that it left a red scrape on his cheek. When they were finished, they were a sight to lighten the heart. Neither of them had had time to shave, and their robes weren't designed to fit under armor, poking out like skirts. Clean linen had become streaked from the dirty gear. 

"We're going to make them laugh themselves to death," Tony muttered to himself, closing the faceplate.

"Better than the alternative," Steve added, shouldering his shield. "Ready?"

With the mask guarding his expression, Tony let himself grimace. "Not really, but let's go anyway."

Stepping out of the bathhouse, the grounds looked no different than when they'd arrived. They were quieter, without the sound of children learning their lessons, or the soft pipe music that Tony only noticed because of its absence. The followed the path through the trees into the main courtyard.

Seven women dressed in black from head to toe stood in a loose circle, backs together. The eagle rampant gleamed silver on their shoulders and over their hearts, outlined in a gold laurel. Behind them a line of soldiers blocked the exit, more of them than Tony could conveniently count in a glance. He could feel the presence of other mages like a weight—Tony had never felt the presence of a magic user who was charged and ready to attack. It made his skin crawl and his heart speed. 

One of the Maidens, presumably the leader, was toe to toe with Priestess Emma. "We know they're here!" she snapped. Her hand rested loosely on a dagger at her hip, obviously itching to draw it. "We saw them land, and our reports said specifically that they were headed this way. You will produce them, or you will face the consequences."

"This is a temple of _peace, love and harmony," Emma snarled, lips curled into a smile that looked like it belonged on a dragon. "We will not tolerate war mongers or foul magic here. Leave, and return harmony to this place, or so help me I'll—"_

Before the priestess could threaten something decidedly _un_ peaceful, Tony cleared his throat and stepped up, spreading his arms. "Ladies, ladies, _please_. There's enough for everyone." 

The leader tilted her head to look at them without actually removing herself from Emma's personal space. With the distance and concealing clothes, Tony couldn't make out more of her than that she had the same sort of air his parents did—used to taking command. "The mystery man, and Legati Steven. I assume by your weapons that _you_ have not taken vows." 

Steve snorted, coming shoulder to shoulder with Tony. There was no sign of his earlier dithering. "I don't know. Considering what's going on back home, taking to the priesthood sounds appealing."

"Running away often holds an appeal for traitors." She looked over her shoulder, and then back at them. Lifting her hand, she gave one small, sharp snap of her fingers. Like magical constructs, doomed to follow even the oddest of commands at a moment's notice, the other six women sprang forward, followed by a rush of soldiers. 

Three of them went for Steve and three for Tony. Tony fought to stay back to back with Steve, where they were safest, but the smallest woman slipped between them like a shadow. Her leg swept at Steve's ankles. He jumped, but it was enough of a break for another woman to break in between them, and suddenly they were split off. 

Emma, apparently having a very loose definition of "peace and harmony", waded into the mix. Her hands and feet moved with surprising accuracy and speed, laying soldiers out with neat efficiency. Every now and then her hands glowed, and a body would be picked up and thrown farther than her size could have accounted for.

The soldiers surrounded them, blocking them off from making any strategic moves. Every attempt at getting back to Steve Tony made, he found himself blocked. The armor was too heavy, too unwieldy for close fighting. Hoping he wasn't about to kill someone that would make the war even worse, Tony let loose a blast of magefire directly into the heart of the soldiers. Most of them ducked out of the way before it hit, but one of them screamed as it seared across his shoulder and arm. A Maiden grabbed his wrist before he could retract it, swinging herself around and under it, twisting. The move brought her behind him, and his elbow near the breaking point. He slammed his other elbow back, barely grazing her ribs. 

Before he could try again, she let out a surprised grunt. The pressure on his arm vanished. Tony turned to see Teddy and Billy working together to swing the woman off into a set of soldiers that were making a spirited attempt to trap Steve. Not only did they have legs, but they hadn't bothered with clothing.

"What are you two doing here?" he demanded over the sounds of the fight. One of the soldiers near him drew a sword, forcing Tony to back up to avoid impalement. "I told you to get out of here!" 

"Couldn't let the adults have all the fun," Teddy yelled as he ducked an incoming blow from a sword. "You know you— watch out!" 

Tony turned, but it was too late to keep one of the Shield Maidens from landing on his chest. Her booted heel hit the chest plate square in the center. He felt the power medallion crack like a broken bone, a physical thing that froze him in place for one vital moment. Life drained from the armor in icy blue spurts, taking his breath with it. The boot cracked against the side of his helmet, ringing it like a bell. His knees buckled.

Steve's shield cut through the soldiers, forcing the Maiden to duck around it. It bounced off a tree and ricocheted back. Holding it at the ready with his right hand, Steve held out his left to help Tony up. He took it gratefully as the remaining fighters closed in. Without the medallion to power the armor, it was reduced to heavy weight and nothing else. 

" _That is enough_." 

The words carried echoes of the wind over the waves, bouncing off trees and walls to echo back against each other. Supported by a boy with a shock of white hair under her arm, Wanda entered the courtyard. She'd traded her fins for legs and a short robe in deep scarlet, and her hair had dried into a mass of dark curls. 

"I will not have more blood spilled on this holy ground." Step by shaky step, she crossed the soft grass. "My people and I have no quarrel with the Maria Secundāria."

The leader's lips pressed together; they'd been split, and her arm was bleeding, but she showed every sign of still being ready to fight. Her hair scarf had been pulled off sometime, revealing a neat crown of black braids. "You bring your quarrel by housing a traitor. Surrender them and the Maria will be lenient."

Wanda looked over at them, nodding slowly. "Emma, Theodore, William: stand back. I cannot swear they will surrender themselves, but we will no longer interfere." 

Billy looked outraged. "Mother—" 

" _No_ , William. This is the direction their path leads. I see that now." She turned her attention back to the leader. "Take your prisoners and leave us."

Thunderclouds darkened Emma's expression, but she straightened and stepped away. Reluctantly, the two boys followed, whispering to each other whenever Wanda's eyes weren't on them. Tony tried not to be obvious about watching them. They hadn't asked for help, but it had been nice to have it.

The leader of the Maidens watched them with her knees still bent and her hands free, ready to spring back into battle. "Well? Do you two surrender?" 

"Can you keep fighting?" Steve asked in a whisper, barely moving his lips.

Surreptitiously, Tony checked his ease of movement. Harder, but not impossibly so. If he had time he could probably spell the armor back to its earlier light-weight, high mobility form, but... "I can, but I'm not going to be able to fly like this. We're going to be walking."

"Unless they have a wagon." 

Glancing over at Steve, Tony saw the nearly twitch of his mouth before it vanished.

Steve's shield dropped to the ground with a dull ring. "We surrender."


	7. Chapter 7

What Tony thought might be the second in command took them in hand while the other three helped their sisters and the fallen soldiers. Tony reluctantly let her take off the armor. He didn't like it, but there was no way they'd be allowed to travel fully armed. Their packs were seized too, but not before he palmed the small golden cutters that took off the mage-locks, tucking the finger-length of metal inside a hole in his shirt hem. Doing what he had to do was one thing, but allowing himself to be backed into a corner with no escape was another entirely. 

True to his expectations, one of the locks was slipped around his wrist again just as soon as the last piece of armor was off. Being the second time, it wasn't as bad, but he still hated the empty feeling. The man who did it gave an understanding shrug when he grimaced, but didn't say anything. Then he was sat back against a wall with his hands bound in front of him and made to wait while Steve was taken care of. 

Steve's search was much, much more thorough than Tony's had been. Two of the Shield Maidens and a soldier volunteered to check him for hidden weapons. The second ended up doing that too, but not without having to fight for the privilege. She even checked in his cheek for contraband.

Tony was almost insulted. 

"Alright buddy, upsy-daisy." A couple of the guards grabbed Tony's elbows and hauled him unresisting to his feet. Two more flanked Steve. 

Wanda watched from a spot in the shade. Even now she looked tired, curled up against the trunk of a tree as if she'd fall asleep any second. In spite of her exhaustion, her voice was strong when she said, "William, Theodore, go with them. Make sure everyone gets out safe." A sleepy, smug smile curved her lips. "We wouldn't want anyone to miss their way."

The two boys scrambled to their feet. Soldiers blocked them from getting too close, but they dodged through as far as they were allowed. The Shield Maidens circled up, keeping close watch as Tony's guards shoved him forward. He hissed, but caught his feet and kept walking. Behind them came the soldiers—twenty-three still standing, with nearly the same amount injured or dead. The ones who could walk did so, and the ones who couldn't were carried by their fellows. 

The dead would stay, to be given rites by the temple.

Children and temple-dwellers peeked out from within and behind buildings, watching as the two of them were led past. Unlike Emma, they didn't follow the winding path, but cut directly across the lawn. Tony couldn't help wincing when he saw the damage they'd done to the grounds. Grass had been trampled and the carefully manicured shrubs had been cracked and broken. Time would repair it all, but there was a strange, loathsome feeling in seeing physical evidence of the world intruding on what had been a peaceful place.

 _My mother's home._ He'd never known she'd grown up in a temple, hadn't known she'd loved before his father, hadn't made the connection between her and the Maria of the Hills other than some small amusement at the similarity of names. None of it had ever come up; he'd never asked, and she'd never offered. Now he wanted to find out what else he hadn't known. 

Outside the gates, people lined the streets in silent little groups. Old, young, men, women, the entire mixed group that Steve and he had seen coming in. This time, they weren't smiling. Their backs were ramrod straight, chins lifted. _We'll defend our home,_ their posture said, loud as a dragon's roar. _You will not cow us, you will not frighten us away._

As if they understood, the soldiers and Maidens started walking closer. The faint banter that had been audible dropped away to nothing. It left the long walk along the spiral dead, only an occasional groan from the wounded rising above the hush. 

Forever later, they finally reached the end of the street. Wagons were collected in crooked lines, their drivers sitting up in their seats and almost universally not paying attention. By contrast, the horses were. When they saw the procession some of them started pawing the ground, eager to be off. Older, wiser ones perked their ears but ultimately stayed calm.

Until the wind changed. Nearly as one the collected animals went still. The one nearest Tony shook its head and tried to back away, nostrils flared and ears back. Its handler tried to sooth it with pats, but it wasn't having anything of it. It flinched away, stumbling, yanking the wagon with it. As if that had been some equine signal, the rest of them started doing the same. Drivers suddenly found themselves over occupied with an entire herd of terrified animals.

Horses were _terrified_ of dragons. 

Some of the uninjured soldiers rushed to help. Tony watched as Teddy and Billy did the same, breaking directly through the center of the mess and nearly crashing into Steve in the process. Hands slipped, flashing in and out of sight as Billy dropped something into Steve's pocket. As quickly as if it had never happened, they raced onward to the nearest horse, a chestnut mare that was making every attempt to free herself and run. 

It took nearly an hour for the last horse to be calmed down enough to handle. The sun had sunk on the horizon, close to setting, and the soldiers grumbled unhappily about having to travel all night. Tony and Steve were forced to wait while a chill wind blew in off the desert. Late fall as it was, Steve's nose still took on a deep pink cast by the time they were finally bundled into a locked wagon that was being pulled by a stolid old gray. He danced in his traces and snorted, fully aware that a predator was being loaded up behind him, but didn't bolt.

To Tony's annoyance, their hands weren't untied. He hadn't really expected them to be, but it would have been much easier if they had been. Once the door closed, they were left in nearly total darkness, with only a small latticed window allowing any light at all. Someone had padded the bottom with blankets at least, so it wasn't too uncomfortable, and they'd be able to stay warm when night fell and the northern winds took their toll.

Outside, voices were shouting orders about _load the wagon_ and _make sure the horses have been fed_. To his untrained ear, it sounded like they were definitely planning on not stopping. That suited their plans nicely. It wasn't flying, and it certainly wasn't as good as having total freedom, but given the circumstances Tony decided that it wasn't a bad way to travel. 

"I seem to end tied up a lot on this trip," Tony sighed, selecting a corner and settling in. "I'm starting to think your gods have a fetish." 

"Or maybe you're just exceptionally handsome in ropes. No one can resist putting them on you." Steve smiled tiredly and selected the corner across from him. Just as he sat, the wagon lurched into motion. It knocked him off his feet and dropped him to the floor with a thump. 

Tony laughed. He had to. The whole situation was ridiculous. "Graceful. Very graceful."

Steve chuckled and rearranged himself into a more comfortable position. "Let's see you do much better." 

"Are you _tempting_ me? When we're supposed to be playing good captives?" When he stretched out his legs, Tony found that his toes just brushed Steve's hip. Just because he could, and because he was about to be very, very bored for a very, very long time, Tony dragged his toe across it. It bumped against something hard that wasn't, unfortunately, Steve's cock. "Is that what Teddy gave you?"

"What? _Oh_." Wiggling, Steve worked his bound hands around so he could pull out the item from his pocket. It was a small clay pot, sealed with a piece of cork. A piece of parchment was wrapped around it, tied on with string. Steve peeked into the jar, blinked, and then pulled off the note.

Sitting up, Tony tried to read the note from across the wagon, but the angle and poor light did him in. "What's it say?" he demanded impatiently. "What _is_ it?"

"I—" Sunlight caught Steve's hair as he tilted his head, making a single spot of bright gold in the gloom. "It's from Wanda. It says she's sorry she had to let us go, and she hopes this helps. I think it's in dragon—"

" _Ažiliasán_ ," Tony corrected automatically. 

" _Ažiliasán_ writing." Steve nodded, and the bit of gold vanished with the movement, leaving their confinement just a little dimmer for its loss. "It's like hearing the words. I never learned it, but I understand."

Dragon soul. The whole concept made Tony grimace. He didn't like the idea that souls could end up mixed around like that. Souls were supposed to match their species. What did it say, when a soul didn't match the body? Steve might be more rightly a dragon than he was.

_Mongrel. Can't change, can't fight, think you're so special 'cause the king's your father—you're just a **human** like your mother. _

"Tony?" 

Giving himself a whole body shake, Tony put the memory behind him. It was just a kit's insecurities, like the fear of heights and how _positive_ he'd been for years that the dark meant he'd vanished and might not come back. "What's in it, then? Some sort of weapon? A potion?"

Steve peered in the jar again, tentatively dipping in his finger. It came out glistening wet, darker than when it went in. He rubbed his fingers together, smearing the stuff. "I think it's paint."

" _Paint_? Why would she give us paint? How does that help?" A bump in the road traveled up Tony's hips and spine to crack his head against the wall. Wincing, he slumped down some, to be more stable. "Is this her idea of a joke? Some weird, underwater humor?" 

"I don't think so. It's a big risk to take for a joke." Steve grabbed the corner of one of the blankets and wiped off his finger. "Let's start with what's going to happen to us. We're captured. We'll be taken to the Maria in Vítahil for judgment."

Tony nodded—that sounded like what he'd expected. "Where we'll escape and find some way to get back to Aži-Táriyat." 

"Eventually." The tips of Steve's fingers ran along the ropes that held his wrists, checking their tension. They were strong, and tied well enough to not come off easily. Tony could probably have helped him slip them, but they'd never be able to put them back on properly if someone peeked in. "We'll have to go in to the palace. I doubt they'll give us a chance to escape before we see the Maria. We'll probably be stripped and hauled before her almost immediately."

"Stripped?" Tony's attention locked on that word. "What do you mean, stripped?"

Steve blinked at him in confusion. "They're not going to take a chance on us going in there armed. All prisoners are taken naked to the Maria." 

Hissing under his breath, Tony cursed in two languages. Of _course_ Wanda would have seen this coming—it was practically her job description. Luckily, they had a way out. "That's it, then. They'll see my chest."

"Red paint isn't going to help hide anything."

"No, but I can make it work. Hold on." Squirming, Tony twisted to reach into his pocket and pull out the purloined cutters. They were tiny things, barely larger than what he used to make jewelry in his off time; it had probably been the only reason he'd been able to hide them. He tossed them to Steve, who of course caught them easily. "Cut the mage-lock. I need my magic. And give me the paint too." 

Obediently, Steve leaned forward and snipped the little strip of silver. It curled up and fell to the floor, just another piece of metal. Once again he felt the world breathing around him, a flood of feeling that made his head and heart ache. 

The pot of paint he pressed between Tony's palms, making sure he had a good grip before letting go. "Just remember to put it back on."

"Yeah, sure, of course." Not without some modifications. There was no reason to put it back on _spelled_ , after all.

The paint was typical, ordinary paint. Maybe a little thicker than some, and though it dried slow it didn't come off easily once it had. Even dampening it with spit didn't make it free itself. Which made it perfect. Dipping a finger inside, Tony concentrated.

Changing _things_ in to other _things_ was hard. Most things were comfortable in their current shapes and didn't want to lose that. Plus, there were so many variables that even if someone did manage to turn a cup into a mouse, there was no guarantee that it would be a living mouse, or that it would ever go back to being a cup. 

On the other hand, changing a _quality_ of something was easy. Color was the easiest. It was only light, which was practically magic anyway. Focusing hard, Tony twisted his magic through the paint, nudging the little bits of _red_ to become something else, something more illusory. Nudging the color a little sideways and touching it with enough magic to fool the eye wasn't hard, and it felt _good_ after having been cut off. 

Once he was pretty sure he had it, Tony took his finger out and wiped it across one of the bruises on his shin. The place where the paint touched faded entirely, as if it were only perfectly healthy skin.

"That's amazing." 

Tony startled backwards against the wall. Somehow Steve had snuck up on him without making a sound, restraints be damned. He'd gotten close enough that their heads had nearly touched. "Make some noise next time, will you?"

Steve grinned. "I did, but it blended in with the wagon." 

_Oh._ That made sense. It still ruffled Tony's scales that he'd gotten that close, but the wagon would be a good enough excuse. And it wasn't like Steve was one of those assassin girls. Or if he was, he was in the best disguise magic had ever created. 

Recovering his scant dignity, Tony shoved the paint back at Steve. "Since you're here, hold this." As soon as his hands were relatively free, he started squirming again. The robes they'd been given were loosely tied, at best. He still had to work hard to get the shoulders to slip down and expose his chest. 

In the dark, the crest's glow was even more obvious than usual, fine blue lines drawing a dragon with wings of flame across his chest and the front of his shoulders, the circle and rays of the sun crossing over its head with a crown of fire. It glowed in Steve's eyes and lit up his face, making it ridiculously easy to tell he was trying not to stare. 

Tony licked his lips and smirked. It wasn't like they'd have anything _else_ to do for the rest of the trip...

"Okay, give it here. I'll hold it. I need you to paint it over my chest." A simple stretch of his legs let him hook them around Steve's hips. Blankets bunched under him awkwardly as he dragged himself closer. Thigh muscles ached, once again reminding Tony that they weren't at _all_ used to this sort of activity. Tony ignored it and settled in with his elbows braced and back arched. "Just slather it on, but try not to over use it. We don't have that much."

The blue glow made Steve's flush look nearly purple. "Ah— yeah. I—yeah I can do that." Once again the paint changed hands. It was awkward, but Steve managed to angle his wrists to dip the tips of his fingers in it. 

Against Steve's skin, the paint turned peachy pale, glistening faintly. Gently, they traced over Tony's chest in short, sweeping motions. It was chill, just a little; Tony's skin prickled as Steve's fingertips glided over his skin. Each motion was precise and delicate as a real painting, and even though it wasn't exactly a difficult task, Tony could feel the weight of Steve's focus on him. It was like suddenly being the center of an entire world.

Cool paint slid down along his pectoral muscles, working in little circular daubs on the thicker lines. Bit by bit the crest vanished, lines of glowing blue being taken over by the appearance of normal skin. By the time Steve finished, Tony's chest was completely plain.

It looked _horrible_ , to his biased eye. Ever since he'd been a kit, he'd had his crest. Not seeing it was just strange.

"There." Steve's voice was thick as he settled back on his heels and stoppered the paint. "We have half of it left, if you need any touch-ups."

His trousers were tented by his erection, though there wasn't enough light to tell if he were still blushing. Tony eyed Steve's crotch thoughtfully, and then took a hard look at how his hands were tied. It wouldn't be the most graceful thing ever, but needs must.

Without ceremony, he reached forward and shoved his hands down Steve's pants.

Steve leaned back, but didn't move out of reach. "What are you _doing_?"

"Thanking you." The cloth was only loosely tied, the same as their robes. Tony took advantage of that to shove them down, freeing Steve's cock. Wrapping both hands around it, he gave it a soft tug. 

Again, Steve leaned away. "I don't think this is the time for that," he growled, trying to bat Tony's hands away. 

Just his voice, low and rough, thick with arousal, was enough to make Tony's temperature spike. "Can't think of a better one." Since Steve kept moving away, Tony put his head down and shoved forward, knocking him the rest of the way to his back. Seldom-used reflexes let him land on Steve's knees before he could move to escape. "Come on Steve. What are they going to do, look in and catch us?" 

The sun had set far enough that Steve's face was nearly entirely in shadow, their little latticed window not enough to let what was left of it through. But Tony saw him nod, _felt_ the way his body relaxed back into the wagon floor.

Taking it as a cue, Tony slid his palms up Steve's cock again, feeling how it laid in his hands. There wasn't room for much movement in general. So he put his thumbs to good use and made sure to drag them along the vein and across the slit at the tip. Steve's breathing jumped, as did his hips, but he didn't make a single noise. 

Faintly annoyed at Steve's reserve, Tony tried it again, this time stretching his fingers down to cradle Steve's balls. That got him another hitch of the breath, but not a whimper, not a sigh.

Clearly, this called for desperate measures.

Holding himself up carefully, Tony leaned down and dragged his tongue across the head of Steve's cock. _That_ got him the response he wanted, a sharp oath and the crack of Steve's head as it knocked backward. He did it again, slipping his tongue just under the foreskin, and then down, wrapping his lips around it.

"Tony, you— _Holy Rose_!" Steve's bound wrists laid over Tony's head, pressing the rope against the back of his neck. When Steve flexed his arms, it nearly forced Tony's head down, and Tony didn't bother resisting. He followed the pressure until the head pressed against the back of his throat. It made him gag a little, but he liked the way Steve felt on his tongue. 

Steve's breaths were loud and panting over the creak and moan of wood, little bitten-back moans escaping him now and then. Paying attention was a struggle. Every sound went from Tony's ears straight to his cock. He tried to listen, to focus on whatever made Steve react the most, but it was the hardest thing he'd done since he'd built the first version of the armor. His jaw started to ache and his lips felt hot; he could taste Steve on the back of his tongue, faintly salty and bitter. He caught himself yanking at his wrists, trying to free them up and then growling when the ropes didn't even come loose. 

The growl ended up being the breaking point. Steve's hips rose up and his arms pulled. Tony braced himself with his tied hands to keep from falling forward as Steve rocked into his mouth once, twice, and then spilled across the back of his tongue. Then he fell backward, limbs loose. 

Tony gagged again, but this time from the flavor, and swallowed rather than spit it over their blankets. Lifting himself up, he made a face and tried to scrub his tongue on the edge of his sleeve. "That was disgusting."

From his puddle of relaxation, Steve laughed tiredly. "You know how to charm a man."

Since Steve couldn't see his smile, Tony bent down again to press a kiss to the soft, muscled edge of his hipbone. "I try."

Steve's fingers carded through his hair, tangling at the base where drying water was making it form curls. "Give me a minute," he murmured, "and I'll show you a trick or two."

* * *

None of the planning or tactical discussion Steve intended had gotten done before dawn. It was a minor annoyance, but he consoled himself that they'd have almost five days of hard travel to make up for it. Wounded soldiers had been left at the first Temple of the Crown they'd come across, letting the healer priests nurse them as best they could. Otherwise, the caravan trundled on without pause, clearly indicating that they wouldn't be stopping until Vítahil.

Sex hadn't exactly been how he'd intended to pass the first night of travel, but it happened anyway. Tony was impossible to refuse. When he didn't get his way the first time, he got sneaky, and if that didn't work he just started pleasuring _himself_ , which Steve quickly discovered there was no defense against. The first round hadn't been bad at all; though Tony hadn't figured out how to use any suction, Steve had been more than happy to demonstrate. The second had been considerably better as he and Tony got used to having their wrists tied. The third was slower, and the fourth was just outright too much.

They ended up sleeping through the rest of the day after that, stretched out on the floor of the wagon side by side. People checked on them, made sure they got food and to stretch their legs when the horses were changed out, but otherwise no one bothered with them at all. 

Steve welcomed the distraction. It was better than thinking about everything he'd turned his back on when he'd agreed to fight his own people. 

There was no other word for what he'd done but _traitor_. He'd fought beside an enemy prince against the soldiers of the Maria. That they'd been coming to arrest him didn't make it better, wouldn't bring back the men and women who'd gotten in his way. 

And the point Tony had made about the green dragon, Naia, had struck home. At the time she'd been likely trying to stop Tony from saving his father, and Steve couldn't find it in him to regret saving their lives. But other dragons Steve fought had people as much as his own were. Not monsters as he'd convinced himself for so long, just soldiers like the men and women that made up his legion. He'd built an entire career out of self-righteous self-delusion, fighting a war for a ruler who would murder during truce and for a supposed kidnapping that was looking like a bald-faced lie at best. 

The idea made him sick.

Tony's fists smacked into his ribs, snapping Steve out of his thoughts. "I can't sleep when you're thinking that loudly. Stop it." 

"Sorry." Steve took a deep, slow breath, and then counted to ten as he let it out. Daylight streamed in through their window, cutting deep amber lines across the wall. "I was just..." Tony wouldn't want to hear about his thoughts. He'd rightfully be disdainful, and Steve didn't have it in him to accept the scorn he was due, so he fumbled for something, anything else to say. "Things are getting complicated, aren't they?"

Against his neck, Tony groaned and deliberately wiggled closer, tangling their legs together at the knee. "I don't know if you've noticed this, but they've been complicated since the king was poisoned. They haven't changed at all, except your view of it."

"I know." And he had, he just hadn't wanted to think about it. Easier to focus on the adventure and on Tony than on the bigger picture. He worked his hands up to wrap around Tony's. "We'll stop this." 

He felt Tony's grin against his neck, mostly by the way his beard moved. "I know. Now can I sleep, or are you going to brood some more?" 

"Sleep. I'll brood at you later," Steve laughed and squeezed Tony's hands. They were rougher than he remembered, sharply callused when he ran his fingers along the knuckles. Fine bumps seemed to coat his skin like sandstone. Frowning, Steve looked down between them and blinked. "Scales?"

Tony's hands were covered with tiny blue-black scales, spreading out from his fingers and up his wrists. As they got farther from his hands the scales faded away, turning the same golden tan as his skin before vanishing. His fingernails had lengthened, turning sharp and pointed, but still essentially nails rather than claws. 

Then Tony yanked his hands away and sat up, and the affected faded. "What?" he demanded, looking down at himself. "Nothing here. Don't tell me you fell into a dream that fast."

"No, I—" Steve snatched up Tony's hands again and held them up to one of the beams of light. Nothing happened, not even a small change. "I wasn't dreaming. Your hands had scales."

"I don't change." The statement was flat, sharply defensive. "You know that I don't. And even if I could, if it were— developing, why would I start _now_?" 

"I don't know—why do dragons start at all? What were you thinking about?" Steve kept a firm grip on Tony, not letting him tug free even though Tony gave a spirited attempt. "Just humor me?"

The hard look Tony gave him was at least partly mixed with humor. That was fine by Steve; just as long as Tony wasn't actually angry with him. "Since you're _dying_ to know, I was thinking about how hard we'll have to fight to get to our things. Even if it's not working right now, I'm not leaving my armor behind, and if they were paying attention they'll know it's spelled, which means it'll be guarded until they have a mage deal with it."

As Tony talked, the skin near Steve's fingers darkened and started to grow hard. Scales glittered iridescent blue in the sunlight, creeping up and around Tony's hands. "Hold that thought and look down."

Brows furrowed, Tony looked down and took a sharp breath. He stretched his hands out, twisting them in Steve's grip to watch as the scales spread. "But it doesn't work like that," he breathed. "It just— it _doesn't_." 

"Maybe it does for you." Steve let go, and the scales started fading again, slower this time since Tony was focusing on them. When he took hold again, they returned. "They like me. Do you think it's because..." 

Tony looked away and pulled on his hands, sliding back to the far wall and drawing his knees up. This time, Steve let him go. "It has to be, doesn't it? You heard the priestess. It makes sense, if I'm not enough dragon on my own, that between us be might be just enough."

Reassurances caught on Steve's lips, unspoken. The evidence didn't fit them, and Tony wouldn't appreciate a lie, even a comforting one. 

Dragon-souled. He didn't feel like a dragon, but what did dragons feel like? Being different explained how he'd gone from sickly and tiny to stronger, faster, better in just the space of a year. He'd never heard of it before, and almost wished he hadn't—it felt like cheating, that he'd been handed something that had shaped his whole life for the better, while other people had to do it through hard work. 

Stretching out a foot, Steve nudged Tony's knee. "Remember what the priestess said?"

Blue eyes peered at him across the way warily. Tony's whole expression was guarded, his shoulders hunched and head low. "Which time? She said a lot of things."

It took a little effort to find the exact memory. The language of dragons felt strange in his throat and on his tongue, new sounds and syllables tangling up together. "'There is more to who and what you are than the form you take.' That. And she was right. It doesn't matter if you need me to change or— or if you never can at all. You'll always be a dragon."

Tony stared for a second, then dropped his head and laughed. "You sound like Jarvis. Like my _mother_." 

"She sounds like a wise woman."

A hint of a smile peeked out at him from behind Tony's knees. "She is."

* * *

It was only a little change, but Steve felt it when they wagons moved from rough roads to the rough cobbles of the city. They'd made good time by not stopping for more than the absolutely necessary breaks and to change horses. He'd estimated five, but they'd managed to make it in just under four days.

Steve left Tony sleeping and stood with his back hunched under the low ceiling to peer out the window. Familiar stone buildings passed them by at a gentle clip. The light was angled to indicate late afternoon, the deep gold cut by more shadows than just the weather would suggest. Somewhere a street musician was playing a jaunty tune that Steve vaguely recognized, something ribald about a young shepherd and the trouble he fell into with a gaggle of milkmaids. Baking bread and smoke scented the air, not quite covering the sharp scent of the nearby ocean. 

People filled the streets, wearing proper tunics and togas, their hair trimmed short or pinned and curled in fashions that almost resembled the ones he remembered before leaving for the border last summer. They pointed and stared, no doubt curious about the procession of wagons and soldiers. After the winter treaty was signed, they were a rare sight on the streets. 

Seeing people and places that were familiar, even if he didn't recognize the people specifically, was a comfort. Steve had always been a city boy; he'd adapted to being deployed to the border, where there'd been the one village and the camp, but he hadn't liked it. 

_Leave a hero, come home in chains._ There seemed to be some sort of joke in that somewhere. Bucky would have liked it, if he hadn't been up in the mountains busy being the exact reason Steve was tied up in the back of a wagon. 

"Are we there?" Tony asked behind him groggily. 

Reluctantly, Steve turned away from the view. He smiled at what he saw. Tony's hair was sticking up on one side, and his cheek had an odd, reddened crease where he'd been lying on it. "Yeah, we're there. We're on the main thoroughfare now, so we'll be arriving soon."

Tony blinked sleepy, half-focused eyes at him and struggled to sit up the rest of the way. He slipped the first time, then found a bit of bunched up blanket to brace against and pushed. "Oh, good. I was starting to wonder if your city moved around."

"You're just used to flying," Steve reminded him, dropping back down into the blankets with a heavy _thud_. "It's a little different when you have to use a horse and roads." 

"Not my fault humans never thought to grow wings." 

They spent the rest of the short ride stretching and waking up, getting ready for whatever was ahead for them. Steve _thought_ they would probably be kept together, but just in case they agreed on where to meet if they were separated. Tony's de-spelled mage-lock would keep him from having any farther bindings placed on him, leaving his magic free to work. And Steve knew for a fact that he was strong enough to break through the doors on the dungeon cells; one of his first winter jobs after he'd grown into himself had been helping to renovate them, and there'd been enough accidental breakages that he'd been assigned to carry supplies instead. 

As far as plans went, it was shoddier than Steve liked, but it was the best they could do. 

When the wagon finally stopped and the door opened, the First of Seven ringed it, clearly to prevent any escape attempts. They were in a courtyard edged with statues and low walls that were near covered with carefully tended vines. Torches lit it with flickering orange light as the sun finished setting behind the grand expanse of the marble palace.

Steve smiled tiredly and inched his way out. Being confined for four days had left his legs strangely numb; the bones had forgotten how to do their job.

Behind him, Tony's foot nudged his back. Steve stepped forward to let him out and immediately had a Shield Maiden on either arm, holding him in place. Tony was similarly confined, and they were marched between a line of guards up the steps. 

As a legati, Steve had been in the temple-palace before. It hadn't changed much, but it never did. In the front hall, white and black marble sterility vied with the riot of color and texture that were the seven altars to the gods. Each altar had a lovingly painted statue behind it, of the gods in their glory, faces only barely roughed in. None of the statues were named; Steve had always been told that it was disrespectful to call on the gods by their names. Now he wondered if they'd just been forgotten. They were made to bow to each altar and statue, even Tony, who did so with an expression of bemused tolerance. 

And then they were stripped. 

Unlike the fuss of before, it was simple and quick. One of the guards took out a razor and cut the robes off their backs with a few quick strokes. They'd gotten rid of the paint and the cutters somewhere on the third day of travel, so there was nothing lost there. Their pants they were allowed to take off without the use of a blade, though the guards and Maidens watched closely for any trickery.

Back in the pool, Steve had been embarrassed by the way Wanda and Tony looked at him as he'd stripped down. There were more than a few of the same expressions in the faces of the guards, but Steve kept his back straight and his chin up. He wasn't going to let some gawkers see him blush. 

The paint on Tony's chest, by a miracle, held up to inspection. If Steve squinted, he could just barely make out the curved edge of the symbol underneath, but it could have been a trick of the light. No one said anything or even hesitated when Tony's robe was cut off. The only thing they paid any attention to at all was the band of silver around his wrist, and apparently that passed inspection.

Once they were stripped of anything that might possibly have hidden a weapon, they were marched off to the left, past the altars and into a small hallway. It's walls were thick with murals depicting the Scales and their wielder, her face hidden by conveniently placed shadows as she dispensed justice with both hands. Only in a few places did the painter acknowledge her _other_ aspect, in the hint of an axe handle at her hip, or the darkness behind the ones she turned her face from. 

The Goddess of Justice had always been one of his favorites. Steve felt strangely light as he walked her hallway. She and the Protector would know the truth of things, no matter his own confusion on it or what the Maria might say. 

Eventually, the corridor let out into a large room, almost entirely empty of furniture or decoration. A small statue of the scales was tucked away in the corner, but otherwise there was no sign that this was as holy a place to her as an altar. Black marble tiled the floor in shining stretches, set off by the marble columns that braced the roof. 

At the head of the room sat a woman in a draping black gown, pinned at the shoulder with a plain silver broach. Her hair was pinned and curled, tucked neatly under a woven circlet of blown glass leaves. A mirror sat in her lap, the face of it dark as if ruined by smoke. 

What drew Steve's attention was the man at her feet, wearing a pair of loose, sheer black pants and absolutely nothing else. He was obviously former military, with visible scars across his chest and shoulders, a jewel-encrusted patch covering his left eye that matched his nipple piercings. The right eye was ringed with heavy kohl, and his lips slightly rouged and shined. Time had turned his temples gray, but he was still in fighting trim. The Maria's fingers curled through his hair, casually as if he were a house pet.

Steve knew of him, though he'd never seen him before personally. General Fury was a legend, the one to lead the charge against the dragons. Almost as soon as she'd taken power, the Maria had retired him, ostensibly to be an advisor. But everyone knew what _that_ meant, and now Steve had the proof of his own eyes. 

The Maria didn't look up as they were marched before her and pushed to their knees. One long, graceful finger of her free hand traced nonsense onto the face of the mirror, which she studied as if it were a scroll. "This is Legati Steven and his companion, the dragon?"

"Yes, Maria," one of their captors said—Steve thought her name might have been Jessica, but he couldn't be sure. "We encountered them at the Obsidian Temple, as you suspected."

"Thank you." A brush of the Maria's palm and the dark mirror turned back to silver. She looked up, taking them in with the same sort of regal, in-control air that Steve recognized from the best of Generals. "What do you have to— _you_!"

The leader of the Shield Maidens startled. "Us?" she asked hesitantly. The guards near her made uneasy noises, looking around uncertainly for the source of the Maria's ire.

The Maria actually stood up from the throne, as if she would launch herself across the room at them. At her feet, the former general casually leaned to the side, giving her room. Magefire glittered at her fingertips, white with an aura of black and gold. "I know you. I _know_ you, Prince. Did you think a bit of paint could fool me? Jessica, Jennifer, restrain him!" 

Two of the Maidens, a tall brunette and the one that had acted as leader sprang forward, grabbing Tony's bound arms and locking around them, holding him pinned. 

"So you know who I am." Tony looked up. His lips were curled back into a smile that only just avoided being a snarl. "Whatever you think you're getting out of this, you're mistaken. You and your people will be ripped apart."

The Maria stepped forward to look him in the eye and snorted. "You think I'm afraid of dragons? Petty monsters who attack in the night, who never venture far enough from their mountains to win the victory they could have?"

"The reason we don't take the lowlands is because we don't want them," Tony snapped, arms and shoulders flexing to mantle wings he doesn't have. His captors flexed their own muscles, holding him in place. "There's nothing to stop us from leveling your city and flying home. _Nothing_."

"No. There isn't, is there?" The Maria shook her head. "You have so little idea what the world is about, don't you? Safe, tucked away in your mountain, with your traitor mother. Your line seems to inspire people to throw away their honor."

Wrenching himself to the side, Steve found enough room to glare up at the Maria. "I followed Tony because I _have_ honor. Honor enough to not be willing to let my home throw away its own."

Her eyes were hot as she stared down at him, dark with rage. "You abandoned your post and men," she said slowly, each syllable precisely enunciated. Fire crackled in her words, as if _she_ would turn dragon and incinerate them. "You went haring off into the mountains after you had been told explicitly by one of my representatives to let the matter go. You killed men of your own army, and stood by an enemy to do it. How is that honorable?" 

Steve had prepared for this, known it was coming, but hearing the accusation hit him like a blow. "Two people had gone missing, and I was _officially_ informed that your representative did not know where they were. As legati, it was my duty to find them." 

"And that he's one of _them_ was a benefit, hm?" Black and gold laced fingers flicked at him, the scattered force of the bolt like a lick of fire. Steve's head spun as if he'd been slapped, and it reddened from the tiny blow of heat. "I expected more of you. You had a great future, and to throw it away for _this_..."

He didn't even give her the respect to meet her eyes. "Better Tony than a ruler who would murder another for petty revenge." 

"You think _I_ —" The color under her olive skin drained out as she stared at him. Something connected in her eyes, a snap decision like he'd seen in soldiers on the battlefield. "Guards, go. Only the Seven remain." 

To Steve's shock, no one argued about leaving the Maria alone with a supposed traitor and a dragon. A few of the Shield Maidens made protesting faces, everyone else turned and marched out. Even her concubine stretched, stood, and sauntered out with a sultry swing of his hips. The doors closed heavily behind them.

The Maria kept looking at them, sharp and focused as a razor blade. Steve started counting the silences by the breath. His elbow and knees were starting to ache from being ground against hard marble, but he kept himself from squirming. He didn't doubt that the Maidens holding him would have been happy to grind them in some more. 

After nearly two hundred breaths, the Maria finally shook her head and turned back to her throne, curling up on it. Once again, the mirror sat in her lap and she stroked it, like a beloved pet. Her eyes stayed on Tony, who watched her with as much focus as she had them. "Why don't you fly away, Prince?" she asked. "You know we can't hold a dragon with any of our jails or chains. You could be gone in minutes." 

"I can't." Tony's head didn't bow, but the hard line of his shoulders softened. Steve closed his eyes, trying not to hear the faint broken edge in Tony's voice. "I'm too human for that." 

She nodded, as if he'd just confirmed something for her. "I see. And why do you think that I am a murderer?" 

"You sent assassins to my home," Tony answered levelly. This time when he flexed his arms, the Shield Maidens looked at the Maria for confirmation. When she nodded, they let Tony stand, swaying, his knees red and faintly bruised from the floor. "Steve knows one of them, and confirmed his specialty. We talked to the Priestess of Mirrors— we _know_ it takes the venom of a hydra to poison a dragon. This is the only source."

"I see." Finally, she looked away. "Good reasons. Wrong, but understandable. I will have to think on this." 

"While you're thinking, my father is dying!" Tony started to take a step forward, but the Shield Maidens grabbed his arms to hold him in place. "If you didn't do this, you'll let me go so I can find the real assassin."

"No. Rushing will do no one favors." The Maria picked up her mirror, turning it over in her hands. "I will think. In the meantime, take them to the cells. They are to be held until I give orders otherwise," she ordered shortly, and the women leapt to obey.

"We will speak again, Prince Anthony," the Maria promised, as they were summarily escorted out. "Do not doubt it."


	8. Chapter 8

Natasha eased into the king's chamber, stepping lightly as she carried in a tray of bread and soup. Light filled almost every corner of the room, thick and golden, hiding away only in the darkest shadows. There was nothing that she would have recognized as a sick room—no bottles of medicines, no blankets, no doctors hovering around. Of course, dragons had no need for any of those things, so they'd never been created. But there were large cushions scattered for the queen and her ladies, and in a corner a clay platter held a few tidbits, in case someone could coax the king to eat. Pepper sat near a low table with Jan, keeping the queen company. 

Most of the other ladies were taking care of matters in the queen's usual wing, and a few were with Bucky, handling the butchering of the meal Lord Morgan had hunted down for the king himself. They'd yet to get him to eat more than a small bite or two a day, but the queen said every effort helped keep his energy up. Natasha wasn't about to argue with a mage about things like that. They knew better than she did. 

She set the tray of food down by Maria's knees, but the queen didn't even look up. Her hands were tangled in the web that curled around King Howard like a spider's around a fly, holding him trapped in thin silk strands. Exhaustion had put dark circles under her eyes and she'd grown thinner around the face, her hair pulled back into a no-nonsense braid. Even her clothes had been changed, from the flowing gown she'd worn when Natasha had first met her to a sensible pair of leggings and a plain linen tunic.

Gently, Natasha touched her shoulder. "Your majesty, you need to eat."

Maria shook her head and leaned forward until her forehead touched Howard's shoulder. Magic sparked where they connected, dim flares of glow that were nothing like the brilliant sparkle of the week before. "Not now." 

" _Majesty_." Natasha picked up a flat of bread, rolled it, and put it next to her hand. "If you get ill, you'll be no help to him at all."

Mechanically, Maria untangled her hand from the web and grabbed the offered food to take a bite. Her eyes had filmed over with colors similar to the magic. Seeing it, Natasha shivered and turned away. 

Pepper and Jan were watching her. She smiled faintly and made her way out of the room, trying not to feel too much like a rabbit being watched by a hawk. Dragons almost never ate humans off the battlefield, but... 

But Pepper _knew_. And judging from the looks they were giving her, Jan did too. They hadn't done anything for some reason she couldn't quite grasp, but that didn't preclude a later change of course. Suspicion had been thick in the air, and strangers were prime targets. It wouldn't take much for her and Bucky to be outed, and there was no one to speak for them except Lord Morgan.

Somehow, she suspected Lord Morgan would not be interested in saving the lives of two humans. 

This had _not_ been part of her assignment. 

As soon as she left the queen's wing, Bucky appeared and grabbed her shoulders, dragging her into one of the many nooks that were a hazard of living in a castle made of caves. Her back slammed into the rough stone, scraping her shoulder blades.

"Where do the king's meals come from?" Bucky demanded, eyes wild. He'd cleaned up from helping with the butchering as Jhemes, but a few flecks of blood were still visible on his cheek. "Who kills them? What pasture?" 

Even though she'd seen him in time to be prepared for the pounce, Natasha kicked his shin on principle. "Morgan does, and I assume the same place they always do. There's a pasture just for the royal family. What have you found out?"

"The one we just saw was strangled on its own swollen tongue." His fingers flexed against her shoulders. "It had been gutted like usual, but it was dying before that." 

Natasha took a sharp breath. "His goats. Someone's poisoning his goats. We have to—" Abruptly, she yanked away from him.

"Where are you going?" Bucky yelled after her, as she hiked up her skirts and dashed upstairs. 

She didn't look back. "To tell the queen!"

* * *

Tony stretched out in the tiny cell he and Steve were shown to, back to the cold stone wall. It was nearly the same size as the wagon had been, maybe a little smaller, but it didn't have the comfort of the blankets or the illusion of privacy. 

At least it wasn't an oubliette. 

Activity bustled all around at first: guards being apprised of their "special" status, people coming to take a peek at the newest curiosity, Steve hotly protesting when they weren't given clothing. Tony barely paid attention to any of it, and eventually it faded back into what must have been the humdrum of the palace gaol. Steve still paced and grumbled, but the guards stopped listening to him. Otherwise, there was just the occasional patter of feet walking past to break his focus.

The Maria had no reason to lie to them about her innocence—had no reason to lie to them at all, since she was locking them up. It would be too easy for Tony to verify anything she said if he got free. Even Steve's friend could tell them whether they were sent on a mission of death or one of peace. If the Maria were canny enough to work out how to poison a dragon in the first place, she wouldn't have bothered with that sort of amateur lie. 

Which mean that the Seven Hills wasn't responsible for his father's condition. 

Groaning, Tony put his head between his knees. Without knowing the poisoner, there was no way to guard his father from more doses. The citadel had too many people and dragons, in all hours of the day and night. There were plenty of opportunities to strike and then vanish back into the bustle.

Steve dropped down by his side with a heavy sigh. Their shoulders touched, bare skin warm and soft. Wordlessly, Tony let his head fall sideways to Steve's shoulder.

"Don't give up." Steve's arm wraps around his shoulder, thick and strong and exactly as comforting as Tony doesn't deserve.

"Why shouldn't I? We lost. _I_ lost. There's no telling who it is." Still, Tony let himself turn his cheek into Steve's shoulder, to breathe in and smell the thick scent of leather and sex that seemed to be ground into his skin. The quick washes they'd been allowed on the trip hadn't been enough to do more than keep them from collecting grime. "I should have stayed in Aži-Táriyat."

Around his shoulders, Steve's arm squeezed. "We're not out of options. The venom came from here, so whoever did it must have come to Vítahil. That can't be that hard to trace."

"That's what I'm _saying_ ," Tony insisted. Steve's arm muffled his voice enough that it didn't carry, but he really didn't care if it did. So what if a guard heard them? "Dragons don't come to Vítahil. They haven't in twenty-five years, since before the war." 

Thick strong fingers carded through Tony's hair, soothing him against all his efforts to resist. "We'll find a way."

"I hope you're right." 

The night passed. Tony considered and discarded plans to escape, rummaging through their options one by one. They would need clothes, weapons, a place where Tony could fix the armor... None of which came easily. Steve's fingers dragged through his hair as the minutes ticked into hours, pleasant and utterly relaxing. By the time dawn crept through the little window slits near the ceiling, Tony had fallen into a half-doze, Steve's bicep clutched against his chest like a favorite childhood toy. 

Just an hour after sunrise, the door opened with a rattle of un-cared-for metal hinges. Tony jerked awake a breath after Steve leapt up and stepped in front of him. He blinked hazily at the pair of guards. Most of the ones they'd seen thus far had been wearing plain white tunics under their segmented shoulder- and breastplates. The two men at their cell door wore black, edged with thick silver embroidery. 

"The Maria wishes to see the dragon." 

Tony scrambled to his feet. "If she sees one of us, she sees both." 

The taller one nodded. "We were told you'd say that, and to say that she sees you alone, or you will stay here without recourse."

"Lord Samuel has been asking after you, Legati," the other reported. He sounded younger, more eager to be helpful. "He told the Captain that he would be down this morning."

Steve and Tony looked at each other, Steve doubtful and Tony suspicious. "I don't think we have much choice," Steve murmured quietly, bending his head to Tony's. "Go talk to her, I'll see if I can find help in Sam. If she's going to keep us here, it wouldn't be bad to have someone on the outside."

"Already thinking like a criminal," Tony smiled weakly and stole a quick kiss, not caring what the guards might think of it. It was over far too soon, and he stepped forward, keeping his hands in full sight. "Okay, fine. Take me to her."

Surprisingly, they didn't put chains on him, and they did him the dignity of giving him a tunic to wear. It wasn't dissimilar to the he saw other people wearing; essentially the same, but made out of something softer, and dyed a shade deep blue. Both guards were polite, but still essentially guards, and didn't say much as they led up three stories of stairs, past the altars, and into the Maria's private rooms. 

The entire top level of the temple looked as though it had been dedicated specifically for the Maria's private use. They showed him to what seemed to be some sort of dining room and left, the younger mentioning that they would be outside the doors. 

Instead of sitting at the low-set table, which was loaded with foodstuffs he recognized from some of the things his mother ate, Tony wandered around the room. It was luxurious in an understated, military sort of way. It reminded him of his mother's rooms, with the flat ceiling and the square shape. The curtains at the windows were black velvet, but simple in cut, the only decoration a thick silver ribbon that held them parted to show the thick glass plating that kept away the winter cold. On the floor black marble was polished to a shine, with no sign of a rug or any other such soft thing. The table was only a circle of pale wood, well-made, but with no carvings to mark it. Even the couches next to the table were cushioned and draped with plain black fabric. A fireplace marked the south wall, merely a nook carved into the stone, but no fire had been laid in it.

Tony tried to picture his mother in such a place, dressed in a black gown like the Maria's. His mother, with her love for bright colors and decorations, the odds and ends of magecraft that littered her rooms no matter how her ladies tried to keep up. Her slow pace surrounded by constant busyness. 

He couldn't do it, couldn't see his mother away from the lush comforts of Aži-Táriyat. In the temple by the bay, maybe, where children collected in the courtyard to learn and the people seldom stopped smiling. There were other comforts there that would keep her, he suspected. But the temple-palace at Vítahil felt like a tomb. 

"Prince Anthony." The Maria stepped in through an opening to his side, startling him out of his thoughts. Her footsteps didn't echo as she stepped over to the table, and her back held stiff and strong as she sat down on the couch and reclined back. "Sit down. Standing isn't going to win you anything." 

Hesitantly, Tony took the only other couch available. The way it was positioned next to the table, it looked like he was supposed to lay down and eat. He stayed upright.

The Maria's mouth tightened, as if she were holding back either a smile or a frown. "Good enough for a dragon." He waited for her to say something else, something _useful_ , but instead she just reached for a small roll and dipped it in a saucer of honey. "You've come a long way. Eat." 

As if working on their own, Tony's hands picked up a flat piece of bread that looked almost like what they had at home. "You need to let us go," he said, tearing it into pieces to eat plain. It wasn't terrible, but it wasn't what he was used to either. "We need to get back home."

" _You_ will not be going anywhere while your flying armor needs repair." She didn't look at him as she said it, nibbling her roll along the edges. "A horse will only get you so far in those mountains at this time of year. Of course, arrangements can be made to provide you with a suitable workshop to repair the damage. As for the Legati—"

"I'm not leaving him here," Tony interrupted. 

_That_ made her look up from her food, eyebrows raised. "He abandoned his post and killed some very good men. That requires punishment. As I suspect he knew when he made the choice to do so. You cannot defend him from the consequences of that."

Tony shook his head. Technically, she was right, and he didn't have any official way to save Steve, but the idea of leaving him made his stomach sour. "Then send me back to the cell, and you can deal with the consequences of _that_. Either we both go free, or neither of us do."

They could escape. She didn't know that Tony's mage-lock wasn't working. It wouldn't be easy, but they could do it and go north. Happy would be with the dragons at the border—he might be able to fly them in, if the winds hadn't gotten too bad yet.

For a second, he thought she might do exactly that. She glared at him, fingers tight enough around her roll that the thick crust cracked under the pressure. "Is that how it is?" 

"I don't know. Is it?" Even though it no longer appealed, Tony made himself eat a bite of food. It went down like a chunk of rock. "He's been a good friend. I won't him suffer for that."

The Maria stared at him for a long, nerve-wracking moment before turning back to the meal. The way she stabbed her bread into a strange, pale dip, it might have been a knife. "Maybe I was mistaken. At least someone in your line has honor."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Tony gave up on the bread, dropping it down to the little plate in front of him. "Why do you hate my mother? She's the reason you're even who you are—you ought to be grateful!"

"Your mother abandoned the Seven Hills when she ran off with your father, right before the winter snows arrived." The Maria swirled the bread around, making deep ripples that left it slathered with the dip, but didn't bother to eat it. "The Maria is chosen at birth and ascends at majority, allowing her predecessor to step down. She cannot marry until she gives up the title to prevent political ties that would dissolve when the next takes her place. Twenty five years ago, you mother chose to let your father whisk her away, rather than staying in her place and accepting a less formal arrangement as is the custom." 

Something seemed wrong about her words that Tony didn't quite grasp immediately. When he did, he laughed. "You're lying. Twenty five years ago is when I was born, in midwinter." He'd heard the story often enough about how his mother had insisted his father stay in dragon form that whole season, because it was just too cold for her otherwise. 

Her nose wrinkled in a snicker. "Yes, you were. Your father was a... Frequent visitor for the summer and fall that year."

Tony blinked at her as that sank in. _Oh, ew._ He hadn't wanted to know that. 

"So you see," she continued, stabbing the bread in his direction, "When your mother left without a successor in place, there was a gap of fifteen years before I was old enough to take my place. In the meantime, the army controlled the Hills, rather than the temple as is proper. And _that_ , your Highness, is why we have been at war."

"Because of my mother."

"Because of your mother." 

He sat back, staring at the table. After a moment, Tony picked up the bread he'd dropped and took another bite. It did as well as the last one. "So what are you going to do, then?"

"I'm going to help you." The Maria finally finished her bread and reached for a slice of some sort of fruit that had been drizzled with honey and nuts. "Unlike what you believe, I sent the my people there to create a treaty that would last beyond the thaw. My Eyes are working diligently, but she is limited by her need to stay in hiding. If word got out that she and her companion are there, I've no doubt they would be branded guilty and plans crafted to raze my city come spring."

"Thank you."

"Don't thank me. I'm doing this to end this damnable war before more lives are lost. Don't disappoint me." Casually, she licked her fingers clean of honey and stood. "Enjoy breakfast. The Legati will be in shortly to finish it with you." 

"Wait!" 

She paused in the act of turning to go, looking at him with raised eyebrows. "Is there something?"

It was a long shot, but Tony only had one. "I need to know if any dragons have been in Vítahil lately."

The Maria stared at him, brows pulling together. "Your cousin visited two weeks ago, as part of the treaty negotiations. I would have expected you to know." In a cloud of black silk, she swept out of the room, not giving him a chance for another question.

* * *

Steve watched Tony be led off, not sure what to feel about it. He didn't think that Tony was in any danger—if the Maria wanted one of them dead, she could have done it while they were tied up and presumably helpless. But wanting to show Tony something that Steve couldn't see wasn't exactly a promising start. 

The sunlight slowly grew brighter, taking on the amber-gold of morning while Steve chewed on his thoughts. There was more than enough to think about, including the rest of the trip. It kept him deep enough inside his own head that it took the sound of the door opening to make him look up. 

"Do you get some kind of joy out of giving me a heart attack? I _told_ you to let it go." Sam blocked the doorway, arms crossed. A plain blue tunic was folded over his arm, along with a length of brown cloth that was probably a cape. He tossed them in Steve's lap. "Get dressed, the Maria's going to be a while with your friend."

The tunic turned out to be one of Steve's own, probably salvaged from his pack on the wagons. He didn't recognize the cape—brown wool, thick with grease to keep the rain off. It clasped at the throat with an eagle pin that managed to hint at the Maria's symbol without actually being it. There were a pair of sandals wrapped up in the hood, slightly too small but serviceable.

He put it all on, using the darker blue cord Sam offered him as a belt. After months spent on the border and then days of travel, it felt good to be in [familiar clothes](http://i1169.photobucket.com/albums/r514/phoenixmetaphor/rbb/plainclothessteve_high.jpg) again. 

Sam grinned at him and stepped out of the way, waving him through. "Come on. Let's walk."

They ended up on the lawn behind the temple. Snow dusted it, already melting away where the sunlight hit it directly. It ruffled the surface of the lake, making little waves lap the shore. Steve scooped up a few stones and tossed them in the water, watching the ripples bounce off the waves and turn into chaos. It was a lovely sight; Steve had a hard time believing that a monster was sleeping at the bottom of it. 

"So, you want to explain what you think you're doing?" Bending down, Sam picked up a few stones of his own. The water was too rough to skip them well. He managed to make one work anyway. "Going off to find them—that I saw coming. Showing up on the other side of the world with a dragon in tow was a surprise."

Steve grinned and timed his next stone so it hit Sam's mid-skip. "I live to surprise you."

"If my hair goes white young, it's going to be your fault." Sam's retaliation was to threw two stones at once, forcing Steve to choose a target. "So who's your buddy? Even the Senate doesn't know. I don't think I've ever seen them so frustrated."

"He's—" Steve's voice fumbled to a stop. Keeping anything from Sam was as contrary to his nature as trying to breathe under water. "I'm not sure I should tell you. The Maria seemed like she wanted it kept secret. It's tied up with what's going on in Aži-Táriyat." 

Stones clinked as Sam shuffled them together in his palm. He stared out over the lake, lips pressed together. "Maybe you should keep it to yourself, then. I already know more of that than I'm supposed to."

"The Maria wasn't happy to see him." That was a bit of gossip Steve offered gladly. "I think there's some sort of history there."

"You know how she is about dragons." In one wide arc, Sam scattered his stones into the lake. A few sped out toward the middle, but most sank before they even had a chance. "Take care of yourself, alright? I have a feeling you're wading in over your head

Steve looked out over the water as the sun finally rose high enough over the buildings to set it to sparkling. "Better over my head than at the shoreline."

* * *

The workshop Tony was given the use of was far from the quality of his cave back home. It was basic, made more for magic than for blacksmithing, and didn't have any of the protections against fire and smoke that he needed. Originally it had belonged to a woman who specialized in entertainment spells and illusions for religious festivals, before she'd apparently gotten a better offer at an amphitheater. 

Tony made do with what he could, and made up the rest. Protection spells were easy to put together. A golden anvil and fire hot enough to work with were less so. Gold didn't like being forced into an unnatural state where it was fit to beat out steel, and was difficult to come by in the lowlands in any case. He ended up making do with bronze and a clay pot full of faeflame for a forge, and hoped they wouldn't muck up the spells beyond repair. 

His armor hadn't been treated kindly by the last fight. Long cracks ran down the center of the breastplate, faintly scorched from where the medallion had broken and spilled its spells. Rust had collected in the joints and on the more delicate pieces from the humid air, little edges of orange-brown that would have to be filed off. There'd been spells against that, too, but apparently those had gone with the flood from the medallion. Steve helped, oiling and polishing what he could. He didn't know magic, but he knew how to care for armor. 

It took a full day of grueling work to repair the breastplate alone, melting down steel until it was the consistency of clay and then packing it into the breaks. The faeflame burned so hot that his skin reddened whenever he had to handle it to fuse the new and old metal together. None of the humans could even stand to be within ten feet of him when it was at its brightest. 

By comparison, the medallion was easy. More jewelry than armor, Tony was able to cobble a new one together from the scraps of silver and copper that he was able to scrounge from the palace. The work was delicate, weaving hair-thin wire together into a backing that would lock it into the armor. His own blood worked as a binding, tying it into his heartbeat the way the first one had been. While he worked he added changes to the spells, simplifying them and magnifying the energy-draw for better speed, longer use and less of a personal drain.

The last thing he did was completely separate, working in glass and blue-stained leather. There were nearly no spells involved, other than the ones necessary to keep the glass smooth and clear. 

It only took an hour to finish, but the hour was the one right before dawn. When the faeflame finally faded and the last tool was put down, sunlight slanted in through the window. Steve had long since finished his polishing and had passed out on a cot tucked back in the corner of the workshop. Tony set the last piece aside and stumbled over, falling in next to him. 

He fell asleep to the feeling of Steve's arm slipping around his waist.

* * *

Lord Samuel— _Sam_ , he'd told Tony to call him—walked around Tony, inspecting the armor with a thoroughly appreciative expression. His bright gold tunic was cut down to his knees, apparently the best concession people in Vítahil made to the coming winter. "I can't believe you were able to get it repaired so well. I saw it when you two were busy being dressed down by the Maria. It looked like you'd been struck by lightning." 

"That happened once, trying out weather spells. Wasn't fun." Tony held his arms out and let Sam get an eyeful. He'd slept through most of the day after fixing the armor, and had woken up to Steve packing a travel bag for them. "My hair stood on end for a week."

They were behind the main palace building, past the grandeur and into the places that were actually functional. Snow dusted the ground lightly, but was already starting to melt in the sunlight. Clay pots filled with decorative kitchen herbs lined the knee-high walls of the walkway, beyond which the ground was being put to use for a garden. Behind it was a complex of official looking buildings all set in a circle, with a deep, still lake at their heart that glimmered in the early morning sunlight.

Of course, each was set on its own hill, seven in total. Tony was starting to suspect that Hillsians had the creativity bred out of them.

"If you ever get tired of being a prince, come back here. Our blacksmiths could learn a thing or three from you." Sam's fingernail rang on the curved shoulder plate. "If this peace goes through..."

"We'll see about a trade deal," Tony promised, trying not to look too smug. It was a nice change, having someone admire his armor. Back in Aži-Táriyat, it was just another reminder of his failings. 

Soft footsteps sounded on stone up the path. They both turned in time to see Steve come up, wearing a clean, repaired version of his armor and carrying two stuffed packs, his helmet hooked at his belt. "You can take your hands off him now, unless you want to come with us." 

Immediately, Sam picked up his hands and took a step back. "No, thank you. I got enough cold just going to the foothills. He's all yours."

"Speaking of travel," Tony added in, reaching for his own pack and pulling out the result of his last hour of work. "Catch!"

Steve caught it single-handedly, holding up the circle of leather. Light glinted off the glass gently, making it obvious how clear it was. "What's this?" 

Tony tapped the corner of his eye. "They'll protect your eyes while we're flying."

"Really?" The things twisted in Steve's hand as he inspected them, eventually finding the tiny buckles Tony had installed in the back and putting them on. The leather strap split into two smaller ones just behind the ear, so they wouldn't take up too much space under his helmet. He tightened it down and blinked at them from behind the thin sheet of glass. "It feels like a blindfold."

Sam snickered. "You look ridiculous." 

Privately, Tony agreed. The glass made his eyes look just a little too big, and the frames that held it in place were hideous. But as long as Steve didn't end up with his eyes frozen shut in the mountains again, that was what mattered. "But he'll be more comfortable." Tony adjusted his back and then held out his arm. "Come on, we're losing daylight." 

Steve stepped into Tony's grip, fitting perfectly against his side. Sam stepped back and lifted his hand in farewell as Tony fit the new medallion into its place. It lit up, shining blue-white light that spread over the armor's surface and settled into the runes carved into it. His boots hissed when power reached them, snow melting in a wide circle around them. 

"If you need to get word out, have the Eyes read a letter," Sam called over the sound of the spells starting. "We can't do much, but we'll do what we can." 

Tony raised his free hand in acknowledgment and triggered the flight spell. Faster than ever before, he lifted off into the sky, cutting an arc over the palace. A figure in black was framed by one of the upper windows, watching them. The Maria hadn't made an effort to see Tony after their talk over breakfast, and that was fine by him. He got enough dirty looks at home. 

The land around Vítahil wasn't plains or forest, but some hodgepodge mix of the two. Scanty woods were scattered here and there in snow-dusted clumps of bare branches. They sped past, nearly as fast as a true dragon could fly.

It took the better part of a day to reach the foothills. The sun was just starting to set behind the western edge of the mountains, turning the ground gold and red. People shouted below when the crossed over the human army; a few enterprising souls even shot arrows that missed the mark by a wide margin. Tony ignored them, other than flying a little higher to avoid a lucky shot.

Steve tugged at his shoulder plate, forcing him to look to the side. "We should take a break before moving on!" he yelled over the wind, pointing back to the garrison.

"We are!" Tony called back, grinning even though Steve couldn't see it behind the faceplate.

Farther north, tucked into rocky outcrops and overhangs, the three dozen dragons that were left at the border camped out. The three on watch lifted their wings in greeting as he circled down to land, heads tilting back with a roar of surprise and welcome.

Nearly every dragon in sight had the pale, washed-out color of ice dragons. They were always the ones left behind, since they didn't mind curling up in snow for three or four months while the rest hid away in Aži-Táriyat until the worst of it had passed. Tony touched down just outside of where most of them were gathered, in a dip that had been filled with thick, soft snow. Unlike Vítahil, it had already gotten ankle-deep in the foothills. The mountains were likely much, much worse. 

Heads popped over the edge of the hill, looking on interestedly. One of them, pale gold like sandstone, with eyes that could have put a spring sky to shame, curled his lips and hissed. Then his head vanished, turning away from his prince.

Tony ignored it, just like he had for the last five years. Tiberius might have been hissing at Steve's humanity as much as he was Tony, and Tony didn't much care to find out which it was.

An oversized dragon colored like the pale green ice from the oldest glaciers lumbered forward past them, head webbing lifted in delight. "Prince! What are you doing here? You never leave home." 

"Just passing through, Happy." Tony patted his friend's snout. Happy had been one of the first dragon servants who'd been willing to work for the "runt prince". When he'd decided to go off to the border that year, Tony had missed him. The humans did their best, but they weren't Happy. "We can't stop for long. We have to get back."

Happy's head lowered, twisting around to eye Steve suspiciously, crest pressed back against his skull. One nostril alone was the size of Steve's head. "Who's your human? I've seen him on the battlefield. He killed Val." 

"My name is Steve. I'm sorry about Val. If it hadn't be a battle, I wouldn't have." To Tony's surprise, Steve held out his hand. He didn't seem sure what to do with it, and neither did Happy. His horns didn't come back up, but they seemed to find some sort of middle ground when Happy bumped his nose into Steve's palm. 

"This is about the king, isn't it?" Happy's big eyes turned on Tony, managing to look sad and pathetic as one of the spoiled lap cats his mother had kept when he was a child. "We heard rumors when Tiberius came to get the rest of the flight. Is he really dying?" 

"We're going to try and make sure that doesn't happen," Tony promised. "Just let us rest for a few hours." 

The answer didn't seem to satisfy Happy, but he nodded, wing membranes rustling unhappily. Tony wished he could have sounded more certain. There wasn't anything to be certain _about_ , though. _If_ they made it in time, _if_ they found the assassin, _if_ they could stop the poison...

That was a lot of _ifs_. 

Happy led them around the hill and into the dragon-made cave that was serving as a home away from home for the wing. Outside it looked fairly normal, the entrance framed by two rough boulders that looked like they had fallen against each other at some point in the distant past. Once inside, though, the path took a sharp left and leveled out, turning smooth. Uneven walls stayed, but they turned bright colors where some of the more artistic dragons passed the time. Torches lit the way every hundred steps or so, their soft blue flames giving off no smoke or odor.

Steve's head tipped back, following the branches of a painted tree up across the ceiling where the shadows swallowed it. "All those scout parties and we never found this place," he breathed. "How did we not find it?" 

"You couldn't." Smug pleasure laced Tony's voice; he didn't even try to hide it. It was nice, hearing Steve be awed about _his_ people. "There's dozens of them, and they rotate. My father's the only one who knows them all." 

Even though he'd never been there before, it was good to be back where things were _right_. Where the light wasn't too bright, the ceiling was rounded and the halls were wide enough for his father's bulk. He'd barely realized how claustrophobic human buildings were until he was well and truly out of them. 

"Here." Happy stopped at a crack in the wall and shuffled aside. It was half his size—enough for a small dragon, but not most. "This was Lady Jan's. There should be a cot in there. After she hurt her arm she liked to stay small. Said it hurt less. I don't think she'll mind." 

"Thank you, Happy." Tony patted his old friend's elbow. "I don't think she will either."

Scales hissed as Happy whipped his head around to stare Tony in the eyes. "Be careful when you get home. Tiberius says that everyone knew you did it, and that you ran away to hide from it. I know you didn't, but not everyone likes you."

Tony's heart caught in his chest. "Tiberius just has a grudge against me," he heard himself say, mouth working at speed without necessarily consulting the rest of him. It had the appeal of being technically true, in the same way that statements like being 'beaten to death isn't fun' were. The word understatement wasn't strong enough. "Everyone knows that."

"Everyone knows that you wouldn't kill the king, too." Happy's nose bumped him in the chest before turning. "Just be careful, your highness."

After a minute, Steve's hand touched Tony's elbow, his thumb finding the break in the armor. "Tony?" he asked quietly. "Are you okay?"

Tony gave himself a shake. He tried to smile for Steve, but it felt sickly, dead. "I'm fine. Let's just get some rest, and we'll head out." 

They ended up sleeping on Jan's cot for nearly three hours. He'd expected a restless sleep, but Tony found himself dropping off as quickly as he had back in the workshop at Vítahil. Exhaustion had dug its claws in and refused to let go until he'd made that much of a concession. It turned waking up into a groggy, slow process. Steve plied him with some sort of wicked herbal brew from his pack that, even served cold, snapped Tony to wakefulness out of sheer horror. 

Happy was back on guard duty when they lifted off, his hide nearly melting into the snowy landscape in the dark. Tony curved around and fired off a short round of red sparks to get his attention. He was rewarded with an enthusiastic wave goodbye.

Once again, they were off. 

It didn't take long before Tony was grateful that they'd stopped for a break. In the dark the crags of the Neshells were dangerous enough. The winds made them worse. In a technical sense the winds came from the northern oceans in the winter months, bringing the cold with them. More immediately, the wind came from every direction at once. They bounced off the sides of the mountains, turning into twisted whirls that sent him and Steve spinning through the air more than a few times. Sweat pooled under his armor, freezing in places where the cracks the in the cold beyond what the spells on the armor could regulate. Next to him, Steve was a bundle of warmth by comparison, the bracelet Tony had made him forever ago back in the forest doing its job perfectly. 

Staying as low as he dared risk, Tony rolled and swooped his way through the worst the weather could throw at him. Steve's grip on him was so tight that Tony worried he might break something. One time he was sick, after a downdraft forced them down so quickly it was as bad as falling. In spite of that, the few times Tony asked if he wanted to find a place to wait until morning, Steve refused.

All he could do was keep pushing on, following the indescribable tug that said _home_. 

Tony lost all track of time. It felt like he'd been fighting his way through the mountains for his entire life. He couldn't see the stars clearly, and the moons seemed to jump around in the sky. Every time he looked up, they were in a different place, impossible to follow without a proper horizon to sight on. 

At first, Tony thought the lights at Aži-Táriyat were new stars trying to lead him astray. It was only when they refused to move that he realized. He shouted in relief, rising up to skim away from the mountainsides. It sat at the top of the peak, a faintly lighter silhouette where the moonlight reflected off its carved granite walls. 

Dragons lined the landing courtyard. They shot off flame as he dropped down to land heavily on the snowy flagstones. He almost kept going, knees trying to buckle. Every joint and muscle hurt, every inch of his skin felt like it had been beaten black and blue. Steve braced him, but he was trembling too. The familiar spells of peace wrapped around him, no match for his nerves.

"Where's my father?" Tony tried to demand with a voice gone hoarse. A cough wracked his chest, forcing him to brace himself on his knees until it was passed. As soon as it was, he repeated himself, louder, wrenching his helmet off for good measure. " _Where is my father_?"

A few of the dragons standing guard glanced at each other unhappily. "Your Highness, you—"

"Never mind," Tony cut them off before they could say something stupid, like maybe he should wait to see the king. "He's still in his rooms, isn't he? Have someone show my companion to my rooms. I'll take care of him later." Without waiting for acknowledgment, Tony forced himself into motion. It was probably rude to abandon Steve like that, but he'd understand.

Moving as fast as his armor would let him, Tony dashed through the great hall and down the corridor that went to his father's rooms. There were nearly no servants in sight. The few he did see were quick to dodge out of his path. Metal boots scraped against stone floors as he slid around the corner and burst into his father's chambers. 

As soon as he stepped inside, someone roared and snapped at him. Tony yelled and dodged back behind the door just in time to avoid being bitten in half by an enraged lady. "Pepper, it's me! It's Tony!"

She hesitated, watching him warily. Her wings were stretched out to their fullest, effectively blocking off the entire room. Slowly her head lowered, green eyes focusing. "Tony? I— I'm so sorry." Instead of changing back to her human shape, Pepper pulled her arms in and shuffled to the side, head lowered so her chin nearly touched the floor. 

Cautiously, he edged in. When he saw the room, his heart stopped. 

_Blood_.

It seemed like there was blood everywhere—the floor, the walls. If the ceiling had been spared, it was only because it was too high up. Other than Pepper, there were two other dragons in the room, taking up so much space that it was impossible to make any sense of the scene. His father's dark bulk sprawled out on the stone bed, unmoving. There was no glimmer of magic around him, nothing to draw the eye away from the dull, faded black of his scales, the sagging wings.

Of the rest, what was left wasn't a dragon so much as bits of one, pulverized and scattered. Dark blood smeared the scales to an indecipherable purple-red and the skull had been outright crushed, noble wings broken so the bone peeked through. 

Tony's stomach lurched. There was only one noble dragon that shade of red—Sunset, one of his mother's own ladies. 

Back in a corner, his mother's ladies hovered in a group, standing shoulder to shoulder, chins up and hands linked. They stared at him like they might refuse to let him through. But as Tony walked toward them, they slowly broke apart, turning away. 

The new girl—Natíl, he thought—had a mask of blood from a cut across her forehead, and her arm hung at a strange angle. A man Tony didn't recognize sat nearby, a short, curved sword sitting across his knees and an expression of distrust seemingly permanently etched on his face. 

Maria was laid out with her head in the girl's lap. The entire left side of her face bruised deep maroon. Scorch marks littered her clothing at the hems, and a nasty burn had left a blistering line across one hip. 

Tony swayed on his feet, feeling as though the air were being sucked out of his chest. "Is she..." 

"She's alive," Natíl reported softly. Her odd accent clicked in Tony's head— _Vítahil_. Steve had the same one when he spoke Ažiliasán. She was better at hiding it, but not perfect. "A head wound, mostly. She wasn't as vulnerable as the assassin had expected."

"And my father?" 

The whole room held its breath. Natíl's expression flattened even more. "He— when she went unconscious, her spell was disrupted. We couldn't do anything." She looked away. "I'm sorry."


	9. Chapter 9

Steve was surprised to be invited to the king's funeral. He'd been surprised to find out that dragons even _had_ funerals, actually. It had never occurred to him to wonder what they did with the dead they carried off after the fighting season was over. Guiltily, he wondered if maybe he hadn't _wanted_ to think about it; like with Naia, it was easier that way, fighting a beast instead of a person.

The temple was so little used that there were traces of dust on the stone statue of a dragon guarding her eggs that took up nearly the end entire room. It smelled like snow and ashes, aired out so little that the scent had embedded in the flagstones. As many dragons as could crowded in, some of them crowded against the side of the walls to make room. Those that couldn't fit gathered outside, blocking the sunlight through the windows.

Tony and his mother had their own place apart from the rest, near the head of the pit. Steve stayed by Tony's side, offering a subtle shoulder when he started to sag. It wasn't needed much—Tony seemed determined to become stone, his back stiff and expression tight. A few dragons stood by them, no one Steve recognized, though one had the same chest marking that Tony and the king had. 

The building was, so far as Steve could tell, one gigantic room with a deep pit carved in the middle where the king's body lay, stretched out as if in flight. He glittered with gold and gemstones, wearing sheaths on his claws and horns, a collar studded with rubies and even something that looked like armbands snaking along the main bone of his wings. 

Ten dragons that Steve assumed were priests of some sort walked around the pit, trickling in oils and flowers that were somehow still fresh with snow thick on the ground outside. They conducted the prayers in a whispered round, using a language Steve only half understood. Each one took up their own part mid-way through until everyone was speaking and the cadence of the chants turned into a melody that seemed to collect inside the domed roof. 

When it stopped, the silence had weight, pressing down and stealing the air from the room. Tony's hand reached out and wrapped around Steve's, squeezing so tight that his knuckles ground together and the tips of his finger-sheaths dug in. Steve bit his cheek and didn't say anything.

The queen stepped forward and cupped her hands, holding a dish with a small ball of purple flame. Her clothing was simple, a set of flowing white pants and tunic, her hair covered a matching scarf. In a slow, measured pace she carried the dish of fire over to the edge of the pit and knelt down. Her lips moved a few times, trying to force words out. When they finally came, her voice was thick and rough. 

"With fire born and in fire lived. Now, with fire, go." Slowly she tilted the dish, and the fire inside poured out as if it were a liquid, steaming down the slope of the pit. As soon as it touched the oil the priests had laid, it burst into life, surrounding the body in a crackling blaze. 

There was no smoke. That was what Steve would remember later. Everything burned to ash, bone and scale and even the gold that should have melted instead, but there was no smoke. At the time, all he could think of was Tony's hand clenched around his, and the bright red blisters on the queen's palms.

It barely took any time before the king's body was gone and the fire died out. Only after it had did anyone start moving, the dragons near the back rustling their wings and starting to turn. They were interrupted by a roar that rattled Steve's eardrums.

"Hold." The dragon with the crest—Tony's cousin, Steve thought—lifted his wings for attention. He turned about with them still in the air, forcing the other dragons nearby to back up or be hit by them. "The king is dead! And the heir is patently unfit." 

At Steve's side, Tony went pale. He untangled his hand from Steve's and stepped forward. "Morgan," he hissed between clenched teeth. "Not now. This isn't the time for this."

Morgan arched his neck to look down his nose at Tony. The spines along his neck rose and fell with a sound like knives on a whetstone. "This is exactly the time for it, cousin. This is a time of war! We need a king who is strong enough to lead us into battle against the humans who did this. Does anyone here doubt that the humans are the ones who killed our king?"

"I do!" Tony lifted his voice. Though he couldn't match a dragon for sheer volume, it carried well enough to be amplified by the stone dome overhead. "It was a dragon that attacked my mother and disrupted the spell that was keeping my father alive. A dragon who fed poison to the goats that made his meals! No human could have done that. My father was murdered by a traitor within these walls, not by the humans."

"You _would_ think so." Morgan snorted, a thin sheet of frost blanketing the floor where his breath landed. "You're practically one of them, after all." He cast a sidelong look past Tony at Steve. "You even lay with the filthy beasts, just like your father did."

Rage tasted like copper in the back of Steve's throat. He started to step forward, but an out-thrust wingarm blocked his path. 

"Don't," the huge, dusky blue dragon murmured in what passed for an undertone. He didn't turn his head, but Steve could feel him watching. "That's what he wants. If you interrupt, Morgan has the right to kill you. Tony won't be able to help." 

Steve held back an argument by biting his tongue. Of course someone with the gall to challenge Tony at his father's funeral would want Tony in that sort of position. It would have been a victory for Morgan no matter what Tony did. 

Tony's fists clenched at his side, claw-like sheaths digging into his palm. He looked like he wanted nothing more than to rip into his cousin's hide. "So this is a challenge?" he asked, voice steady. "For your sake, it had better be."

"It is." Morgan must have realized that Steve wasn't going to give him what he wanted. His head swung back to focus his eyes on Tony. "Tomorrow morning, under the official challenge laws."

The announcement made a murmur run through the watching crowd. "You can't do that," Tony argued. "If the dome goes up, the queen won't be able to attend. She has that right."

"It's _tradition_ for a throne challenge," Morgan hissed, and if a dragon could smile he would have. "Be glad. Your murdering little human paramour won't have to watch you die. Choose your second well, little cousin."

The ice-dragon turned and walked away. A path parted through the crowd for him. Most of the dragons present seemed in shock. At first, no one moved, but then slowly the dragons near the back began to edge out in a slow trickle, until the temple was empty of everyone but the blue and gold dragons that had stood by Tony.

Tony's mother still hadn't risen from beside the pit. 

The big blue one stepped up to nudge Tony's shoulder with his nose. "I'll go with—"

"Rhodey, no," Tony cut him off with a raised hand. "I just... let me think. Okay?" 

Rhodey's head drooped. He nudged Tony again, more gently. "Don't take too long. We'll get you through this." Then he turned and left. The little gold one gave Steve a sharp look, but didn't say anything as she followed him. 

Steve stepped forward, not sure what to do but needing to do something. He wrapped Tony's hand back up in his, squeezing gently. "Do you want me to go?" he asked in a whisper.

"I... Yeah." Tony wouldn't look at him. "I need a few minutes with my mother. If that's okay?"

"Just come find me when you're ready." Steve kissed Tony's cheek before following the dragons out.

Bucky waited by the door outside, knees drawn up to his chest. When Steve passed, he scrambled to his feet to follow. They didn't say anything as Steve crossed the open expanse of mountainside that separated the temple from the rest of the citadel. It was a difficult walk, meant for dragons more than humans. No one had bothered to smooth out a path, so he found himself having to dodge around scrub bushes and loose piles of snow that collected around slippery rocks. 

The sky had cleared for the funeral, the winds dying to a soft breeze and the clouds rolling back to show a clear blue dome. It would have been a cold day, but Tony's gift kept the worst of it from touching him. A few dragons had taken advantage of the break in wind to go flying, soaring overhead in graceful arcs. Steve thought he spotted Morgan with them, paler blue than the sky and glittering like a piece of ice in the sun. 

"So Morgan challenged the prince?" Bucky's voice broke the silence as the edged around a boulder. "I figured he would. Nasty piece of work."

"He wants to kill Tony. I could see it." Steve's jaw tightened again. _Filthy beasts_. "If Morgan wins, he's going to use this as an excuse to raze Vítahil. He hates humans. We have to save Tony." 

It took a few steps before Steve realized Bucky wasn't with him. His steps paused as he twisted. His best friend's expression was graver than usual, almost pitying. "What?" Steve demanded, harder than he meant to. 

Bucky looked at him dead on. "Steve, I'm telling you this as a friend," he said slowly and clearly. "I don't know what you and the prince had together, and I don't really want to, but enjoy it while you can."

"You think he's going to die," Steve accused. There was a lump in his chest that he refused to admit was dread. "We've fought dragons before. You know it's not that simple."

Holding up three fingers, Bucky ticked each one off. "We have weapons made to cut through scales. Armor that holds up against most things. Magic if there's a mage handy. He won't. Rules of the challenge. I don't think even you could do that." 

The lump in Steve's chest slid down to his stomach, turning to a chunk of ice that the bracelet couldn't ease. "There has to be something I can do." 

Sympathy softened Bucky's eyes. "Remember to say goodbye."

* * *

Steve waited in Tony's rooms until long past nightfall. He kept busy prowling through the scrolls and books that were scattered in them like detritus from a literary storm. Some of them were on metal crafting and some on magery, with diagrams that seemed ready to leap off the page and into life. The ones written in Ažiliasán were the ones he was most fascinated by. A few of _them_ were more of the same, with charts and spells and temperatures all noted in diligently. 

The rest were _stories_. They ran the gamut from children's tales about an ice-dragon who'd visited the beach to what read like inscribed oral histories of Aži-Táriyat. Some of them were so old the parchment crackled and others looked like the ink had barely taken time to dry. Steve settled down with one of them chosen at random. It turned out to be a history of Aži-Táriyat from back before it was even a kingdom. The scroll didn't say anything like what Wanda had mentioned. At least, not directly. There were gaps, though, where her version could fit snugly in between the lines—why dragons decided to form a nation at all, the sudden lack of any shapes other than dragon or human. 

Fascinating as it was, Steve could barely concentrate. He fidgeted his way through the first half of it until he caught himself reading the same line twice. Then he gave up and went looking for Tony. 

It turned out that he didn't have to go far. As soon as he stepped outside Tony's rooms he heard voices. Steve followed them to a window; it had been shuttered against the cold, but poorly. A little prying cracked it open, letting him lean out to see the shadow of a dragon and human sitting in the courtyard below. They'd been there long enough that the dragon had collected snow across his shoulders. 

It was pure luck he'd passed the window just then. Voices carried well inside the citadel, but outside they might as well have been thrown into a void. If he hadn't been directly above them, he might never have heard at all. 

"I'm not letting you go in there alone!" the dragon snarled. It sounded like the one Tony had called Rhodey, but with his voice rough and angry it was hard to be sure. "It's a death sentence!" 

"We've gone over this." Tony's voice was quieter, for all that it was just as infuriated. Steve held his breath and strained to hear. "It's a death sentence either way, and I'm not going to do that to you. After I die, it'll be two against one, and Morgan won't choose someone easy. You're good, but not that good, and injured on top of it."

Claws scraped stone, a thick grinding noise that made Steve's jaw ache. "If you die without a second, Morgan gets the throne for sure. He killed your father. You _know_ he did. And you're going to let him win?"

"He's going to anyway." The flat certainty in Tony's voice carried even with the distance.

"Tony, don't make me do this. Don't..." Below, the shadow of the dragon stretched his wings as Rhodey's voice faded away. Steve tried his best to hear, but either the wind had changed or they'd switched to whispers. Pulling away, Steve tucked the shutters back in more firmly than he had been, and then touched his forehead to them.

He felt like a voyeur, listening to Tony saying his goodbyes. It made the whole thing seem somehow more real. Steve knew what it was like to wake up and know that there was a good chance he would die that day. It was part of being a soldier, and he'd learned to accept it. But he'd never been _certain_ , never walked in the shoes of a condemned man.

Steve lingered at the window, waiting, until he heard familiar footsteps coming up the stairs. Most of the palace denizens walked like they weren't entirely comfortable on two legs, and the human servants barely made any noise at all. Tony's stride was unique, and Steve wasn't disappointed when he looked up to see him rounding the corner. 

Tony hesitated, looking between Steve and the window. He was still dressed exactly as he had been when Steve saw him last. Dawning realization crossed his face, followed by a grim sort of acceptance. "You heard me talking to Rhodey."

"Yeah. I..." Searching for words, Steve couldn't find any. _I'm sorry_ wasn't good enough. 

"No, Steve. Not tonight." Exhaustion weighed him down like a cloak. "Please, don't say anything." 

No words. That actually worked when there weren't any worth saying. "Okay." He grabbed Tony's wrist and used it to reel him in, slamming him back against the wall hard enough that he let out a grunt of impact. Steve covered Tony's mouth with his, keeping him pinned with body and hips and arms. Height and weight were in his favor, and he used them to keep Tony trapped. 

They fought, pushing and pulling against one another as Tony tried to steal control of the kiss. Tony sank his teeth into Steve's lips, tugging and then using the opening to dive in. His hands slid down Steve's back, metal finger-sheathes leaving long scratches even through the tunic. He had the advantage there, finding the hem and yanking it up to pull at Steve's underwear without needing to pause. 

By comparison, Steve had to battle with laces and buttons, two shirts and a pair of trousers. All of it caught on fingers made clumsy with arousal. By the time Tony had wrapped a hand around his cock, Steve was only just finally finding the ties on his pants. 

Cursing, Steve broke the kiss and rocked his hips into the touch. His hand still entirely at Tony's pants, concentration scattered to the winds. "Cheating," he growled, nipping at the soft skin just under Tony's jaw.

"No rules," Tony shot back, twisting his wrist in a way that made Steve's heart jump. 

Steve abandoned the quest to free Tony's pants in favor of gripping his hips and lifting. Tony yelped and immediately clung, legs snapping around Steve's waist and arms gripping his shoulders. He was by no means a small man, but Steve had always been a little stronger than his frame ever seemed to suggest. 

Still, it was something of a struggle to keep Tony balanced against the wall, especially when his weight slipped down and their hips ground together. Tony groaned and arched into the pressure. His head leaned back against the wall, leaving a long stretch of neck bared for Steve to take advantage of. 

It was rough and fast and awkward. Tony's pants were soft leather, but not _that_ soft, and Steve's grip wasn't tight enough to keep them perfectly balanced until Tony braced his palms against the windowsill. They made do, hips finding a rhythm somewhere in the mess, friction turning into heat between them. Tony lost it first, shuddering and palms slipping as he came, kisses becoming languid and easy. Steve didn't last long after that, his groan lost somewhere between their lips. 

He managed to put Tony on his feet instead of dropping him. Then Tony's knees gave out and they both ended up on the floor anyway, clinging to each other in order to stay upright.

"We should find a bed," Tony murmured against Steve's cheek. "If I— tomorrow..."

Twisting his head, Steve caught Tony's lips in a short kiss before he could find the rest of that sentence. "Don't say anything."

* * *

They spent most of the night making use of every available surface in Tony's rooms, and a few that weren't available until they cleared them. Once Steve tried to suggest that Tony rest, but the kiss that he got in reply had been so ferociously desperate that he never asked again. Nevertheless, there were too many hours in the night, and they ended up falling asleep eventually, tangled tight around each other. 

When Steve woke up, he was alone. 

Sunlight had just starting to peek through the edge of the window, a deep pink blush that meant it hadn't quite passed the horizon completely. The small iron oven that kept the room warm had faded in the night. Steve stared at the shadows of the ceiling, not breathing as he listened to the deathly silence of the room. One thought twisted through his head, loud as a bell. 

_Tony might still be alive._

In a flash he rolled from the bed, bare feet slapping onto bare flagstones. He hesitated in front of his armor before grabbing instead the tunic he'd discarded the night before and throwing it on. His sandals took a moment longer, but he knotted them messily rather than bother with proper laces. Over the top of it all he threw on his cape, buckling the eagle pin as he ran out the door.

_No armor, no weapons, no magic._

There was no one in the citadel at all but the human servants. Every single dragon was gone, presumably to watch Tony die. Steve grabbed the first person he saw by the shoulder. "Where's the challenge happening?" 

The servant girl tried to yank away from him, ducking down slightly. "East!" she babbled, twisting herself free. "Out of the great hall and east. But you won't—"

Steve didn't pause to let her finish, just pushed right past her down the steps. He didn't slow on the turns, just bent his knees and leaned into them. Short flights of stairs he leapt, risking a broken neck in exchange for speed. 

As soon as he left the hall, he realized he hadn't even needed to ask directions. The area to the east was thick with dragons, clinging to rocky perches and circling overhead like giant vultures. The peak that the citadel took up dropped down into a sharp slope that leveled off into a barren plateau. Something glimmered over the field, a thin dome of orange. Whenever a dragon flew through it, it sparkled with golden flares, but didn't seem to do anything else. 

The landing courtyard was flat and clear. Steve's side ached for sprinting all the way down the stairs. He did it again anyway, staying low and skimming across the surface to the very edge of the courtyard where the ground suddenly dropped away. Steve braced himself to go over. Instead, gold sparked like fire as he hit the edge of the dome. It caught him like it was a solid thing pushing him back and away. 

"No!" Steve pounded on it, fists clenched, cursing in his own language. It flexed like flesh, giving only a little before it simply solidified. A few dragons turned their heads at the noise, watching him with interest. He set his shoulders and shoved, sandaled feet digging into the flagstones. Every inch felt like a victory until he reached the edge again and the pressure became a rock. "Let me in, damn you!" 

Down below dragons clung to the edge of the slope, nearly blocking the view, but every now and then a flash of icy breath was visible, or the small figure of Tony as he fought to buy a few more minutes of life. 

He was down there, alone, about to die, and Steve couldn't get to him. 

"Please," Steve begged in a desperate whisper, slipping languages to the dragon's tongue. "Let me in, I can't let him do this alone, let me in _let me in_..." 

The rock barrier softened, more gold flaring around him. Steve pushed harder, closing his eyes to keep from being blinded by the glare of the magic. It felt reluctant, a slow parting of the way, as if it weren't sure what to do with him. He kept pleading, promising any god any _thing_ if he could just get to Tony. 

Steve wasn't prepared when it gave way right at the edge of the slope. The silver bracelet Tony made for him burned and sparked like a hot iron being struck. It faded just as a wall of cold air slammed into him, the warming spell completely ripped away. His feet slipped and dropped under him, tumbling him over the edge. 

Rocks and gravel scraped his legs and hips, gashed a cut open across his arm until Steve managed to find an equilibrium and take control of the fall enough to minimize the damage. It slid him out to the very bottom of the incline, and then farther out onto the field until his momentum was stopped by slamming into someone else. They spun together a few more times, eventually coming to rest in a sprawled heap on a patch of iced-over ground.

Tony stared up at him, fists wrapped in Steve's shirt. He pushed, forcing him off and scrambling back. "How did you— You can't be here! Go!"

One of Morgan's clawed feet came into view. "Look, little cousin," he laughed. "Maybe you're not the only one who wants to die today after all."

* * *

Leaving Steve in bed had been one of the hardest things Tony had ever done. He'd thought it would be the kinder solution. Since Morgan had called for royal challenge laws, Steve wouldn't even be able to get down to the field to watch anyway, and expecting him to stand back outside the shielding to listen for the moment Tony died would have been cruel. Tony couldn't protect his mother—she'd find a window and wait, he knew her—but he could at least make sure Steve didn't have to go through that. 

After the challenge at the funeral, Tony had sat with his mother for an hour, waiting for his father's ashes to cool. She never said goodbye, hadn't as long as he could remember, but the way she'd clung to him had been the next closest thing. _This is my fault,_ she'd whispered. _I thought I could make my own path, and instead I walked into thorns._

She'd told him the entire story, the one he'd never heard before. How she'd hated Vítahil for being nothing like her home, resented the Seven Hills for taking her away from the temple at the bay. How meeting and, eventually, running away with his father had been just the spark the army needed to take over from the priests. Of course they'd declared war, and no matter how she tried nothing would stop it. The Maria could never leave the Seven Hills—she might as well have been dead to the people, and the army used that to steal power. 

Tony thought about that as he dressed. Twenty five years of slow, crippling battle that Morgan would turn into a war of extinction. It would backfire, and horribly, but Morgan wouldn't see that until it was too late. 

He couldn't leave—Aži-Táriyat was his home; Tony couldn't imagine seeking refuge in the temple by the bay, or eking out an existence in the foothills and leaving the rest of the world to collapse. There was too much at stake. Even if it was a lost cause, he just didn't have it in him to abandon it. 

No one spoke to him when he walked through the halls. Servant's eyes slid right off him. Conversation choked off when he passed. Tony might as well have already been dead. Silence followed him through the landing courtyard and through the dome. It tingled over his skin, shredding the little enchantments that he kept on most of his clothing against wear and tear, but it didn't try and stop him. He might not have been dragon enough to change shape, but he was dragon enough for the magic to recognize. 

Tony took his time sliding down the slope, looking around to take everything in. Dawn hadn't quite broken yet; the sun was just far enough up to make turn the sky red. Noble dragons clustered together, Obadiah, Bethany, Rumiko and all the others. Most of them would be glad to see him dead. They'd been the loudest to complain about his mother taking a mantle they all thought should be their own. Jan and Rhodey had found places at the edge of the field. He tried to tell them with a glare to _go away and don't watch this_. The way Jan bared her teeth was enough answer to _that_ idea. 

Perversely, he was glad when they didn't leave. It was a selfish feeling, but at least he wasn't going to be _totally_ alone. 

Morgan waited in the center of the field, wings folded and clawed feet tucked under him, tail twitching back and forth impatiently. "You're almost late." 

"Almost doesn't count." 

"No," Morgan answered, dropping his head to look Tony in the eye. "It doesn't. Where's your second?"

Tony had never really considered Morgan intimidating. Annoying, a bully, cruel, but never intimidating. By dragon standards he was still incredibly young at only three centuries, which meant small—dragons never stopped growing as long as there was food to support them. That didn't stop his shoulder from being three times Tony's height. None of it had really sank in before, but as he looked up at Morgan, Tony saw the teeth and the claws that would kill him. 

Nerves tied Tony's stomach in knots. He did what he usually did—blustered. "Don't need one. Where's yours?"

"Right here." One of Morgan's wings flicked behind him. Behind him, a sandstone gold dragon waited on the side, just outside the official edge of the field. "Tiberius was kind enough to come up from the border to stand with me."

Tony stared. His feet were rooted in the rock. Morgan could have had him gone in a single bite. "That was fast flying."

The comment was inane, but it was all he could think of to say. There hadn't been time for a messenger to get through the winter winds and return. His armor was small and slow, but it didn't have wings to wrench about to a wide profile to catch the wind. Tiberius would have had to have left just after Tony.

Hours before his father died. 

Morgan's wings flexed in a draconic shrug. "Humans aren't the only ones who can use magic trinkets."

A lump lodged in Tony's throat, tasting of copper and bile. He swallowed it down. "I didn't want to believe it was you. Didn't want to think you could do that." Tony took a step forward, forcing Morgan to stumble back in order to keep him in sight. "But you did, didn't you? You went to Vítahil and got the poison. You fed it to the goats in the royal herd. And then when Tiberius told you I was coming back, you hurried the job. I should call you out for a regicide."

For being a consummate liar, Morgan had never been good at keeping a straight face. Or Tony had thought. He'd kept a straight enough one when he was poisoning Howard. Teeth bared in a snarl, Morgan whipped his head around. " _If_ any of that were true, and if you did, it would be my word against yours. We'd still be right where we are, a few minutes away from _your_ funeral pyre." 

The sun had just about cleared the horizon. Being surrounded by mountains slowed the sunrise down, but it couldn't stop it forever. As soon as it was done, Morgan could attack and no one would call foul play. The fight would last as long as Tony's luck. 

_If I'm going to die, at least I'm going to make it as hard as possible for him after._

" _You killed him_!" Tony pushed forward again, forcing Morgan back more. Before the challenge, they couldn't touch. That was the _rules_. He used it, backing his cousin right up against the cliff edge that marked the eastern face of the field. "You killed the king! _You_ went to Vítahil where the poison came from! _You_ caught the king's meals while he was sick! _Murderer_!" 

Air whipped Tony's hair in his eyes as Morgan flapped his wings, fighting for balance as he balanced right on the edge of the field. The crowd of dragons started murmuring amongst themselves, shock and disbelief heavy in their voices. Even though Tony couldn't hear the individual words, it was clear they were giving the accusations some weight. 

Satisfaction curled into an ugly coil in Tony's chest. Morgan's rule wasn't going to be an easy one. 

" _Liar_!" Morgan snapped his teeth, forcing Tony to dodge. "Whose word do we have that the poison came from there? Yours? How do we know it wasn't one of your damned magics? I say you're the one who did it!"

The last pink edge on the sky vanished as the sun cleared the edge of the mountains. Morgan's flapping stilled, as if he'd realized the time too. His chest deepened. Tony had just enough time to roll out of the way before a blast of icy breath froze the ground where he'd been standing. 

The terrain was rocky, littered with stones of all sizes that had crumbled down from the surrounding cliffs. Centuries of use had worn away any sign of grass or scrub, destroyed any chance of hiding. Tony made use of it as best he could, staying constantly on the move. Morgan's attacks landed just where Tony had been the second before, always a moment too late. 

Every breath of icy air made the ground that much more of a sheet of ice. While he still could, Tony snatched up a good-sized rock and hurled it. Morgan ducked his head, but Tony's rock still manage to strike him in the tender join of torso and hind leg, where the scales were thin and softest. The blow won him time as Morgan winced and curled around himself, hissing in pain. 

Before Morgan could recover, Tony ran at him. The ice slick caught under his boots and propelled him faster, sliding him directly under his cousin's chest. One great paw swiped at him, missing by only an inch. Morgan twisted and bent, dancing in circles to snap at him, but Tony stayed too close for him to get a good bite or blast in.

A few minutes bought. 

Up on the western slope, some sort of commotion was drawing attention. The dragons in that area were turning around to see what it was. Tony ducked under Morgan's neck, flashing a quick glance that way in case it was something useful. 

A glimpse of bright blue tunic froze him in his tracks.

It was enough. The side of Morgan's head caught him in the ribs, sending him skidding across the field on a sheet of thick ice. Something else collided with him, tumbling around him until he finally came to a stop.

Horror cost Tony precious breaths as he looked up into Steve's face, transfixed. It took a crack of Morgan's weight on the ice before he remembered to shove him away and scramble to his feet. "How did you— You can't be here! Go!"

Humans weren't supposed to be able to cross the barrier. That was the whole _point_. Steve shouldn't have even been able to _be_ there. He should have been safe at the top, out of the way of everything. 

Morgan loomed over them, wings spread. "Look, little cousin. Maybe you're not the only one who wants to die today after all." 

"That was an accident!" Tony yelled, throwing himself between Morgan and Steve with his arms spread, as if that would do any good at all. "You saw it! He doesn't count!"

"I think it does." Blue veins caught the sun as Morgan lifted his wings. "Is he your missing second, or has he _interfered_?"

"No." _This isn't happening. This **isn't happening**._ Tony couldn't breathe, could barely think. If Steve had interfered, he was dead. Morgan would do it gladly, just to hurt Tony. But if he was Tony's second... "No— No! You're not going to kill him! I won't let you!"

"Is he your second or no?" Morgan wasn't going to drop it, wasn't going to give Tony even that. 

A strong arm wrapped around Tony from behind, forcing him back out of Morgan's range of easy strike. "I am!" Steve announced. "I'm his second."

There was really no choice for Tony but to hit him. "No! Do you know what you're doing? What you're _thinking_? You're going to die!" 

Steve wasn't fazed by the blow at all, rocking back on his heels only a little. He grabbed Tony's arms before he could do it again, shaking him hard once. The band on his wrist gleamed like it had been oiled, all the careful runes and markings Tony had carved into it washed away by the dome, leaving it just a mage-lock again. "You didn't leave me in the woods." 

Tony panted, staring at Steve blankly. Where his hands touched Tony's shoulders, the skin itched like he had a bad sunburn. He wanted to babble that he'd barely been able to _walk_ , never mind leave. Wanted to say that Steve throwing his life away on Tony's lost cause was hardly a fair trade. _Needed_ to beg Steve not to do this to him.

The words locked in his throat, trapped by a thick smell of spices and a scent he'd lived with all his life but that had never been on Steve. "You smell like dragon," he whispered. 

"Touching as this is..." The shadow over them moved. It was the only warning they got before his teeth closed. Steve's reflexes were miles ahead of Tony's, grabbing him up and yanking them both out of the way. Morgan didn't seem put out by it at all. He flexed his neck and tail, clearly enjoying playing with them. "Since your second has taken the field with you, mine gets to as well. _Tiberius_!" 

There came the sound of rock giving way as Tiberius leapt up into the sky. Tony didn't wait to see where he was going. He grabbed Steve's hand and ran, dodging around a frozen block of boulder just before an ice blast from above shattered them into shrapnel. Morgan threw himself into their path with a roar, making them skid and slide in their hurry to change directions.

They couldn't run forever. Tiberius and Morgan weren't even trying to hide that they were just playing with them. It was a game to them, tormenting their food until they got bored enough to end it. 

Another smack from Morgan's head hit him in the side. Steve curled around Tony like a human shield as they went rolling over rocks and ice, strong and perfect, heartbeat thudding against Tony's shoulder blades.

He was going to die. 

_Steve_ was going to die.

_No._

Tony's claws dug into the ice, digging channels through it as they came to a sudden stop. His skin tightened and itched. He could smell Steve, thick as bed sheets, could _feel_ him at his back more real than any human had ever been.

It wasn't going to happen that way. Tony wasn't going to cost Steve his life. Not like this, not _ever_. 

Morgan staggered backwards as Tony looked up, and up, and _up_. His bones turned to liquid, melting down to reform into something stronger. Fire burned in his chest and belly, a tickle of heat and promise and destruction. Black-blue scales turned sapphire where the sun caught them, glittering the same color as his mother's eyes. Steve was still at his back, clinging to the base of his neck with both hands and knees. 

Tony spread his wings and lowered his head, hissing at Morgan and Tiberius. They were smaller now. Still bigger than him, especially Tiberius, but not by much. "Steve?" His voice sounded strange in his own ears, thicker, as if it were coming from a long way away. "Are you okay?" 

"I'm fine! I'm— oh gods. You're a dragon— oh _gods_ —" The weight on his shoulders shifted lower, grip tightening. "Tony, move!"

Steve's voice connected to Tony's back legs and wings without consulting his conscious mind. He leapt into the air, just as Tiberius and Morgan rushed at him. One of Tiberius' horns scraped his foot, but by then he had enough altitude to escape anything worse. They scrambled to find traction, wings pumping furiously.

Up between Tony's shoulders, [Steve had found the solid place just in front of his wings to cling to](http://i1169.photobucket.com/albums/r514/phoenixmetaphor/rbb/inflight_high.jpg). "Stay above them! Their necks are vulnerable from behind!" he yelled against the wind as Morgan finally managed to lumber into the air.

Flying without the armor was different, harder physically but easier to maneuver. Tony's chest and back were already feeling the strain, but the wind made up for it. It caught his wings, caressing them, lifting him up when he tilted them and caught it just right. He twisted in the air, circling over Tiberius's muscular shape. 

_He_ was the real threat. He was bigger, a soldier, in shape and used to fighting. Morgan was still struggling with the winds—he didn't know them the way Tony did. When winter came, he usually found a snow bank to wait it out.

Morgan struck up from below, clawing through the air. Tony let him come, waiting until the last second to dodge with an easy side-slip. Steve's weight stayed steady on his back as he folded his wings and dived.

Tiberius screamed when Tony's claws slashed through the delicate wing membrane. His weight forced them to drop like a stone, Tony's claws dug deep into Tiberius' sides and haunches. Tony put his teeth to work with them, doing as much damage to the exposed muscles and joints as he could before the ground rushed up on them, copper blood coating his tongue like honey. He let go at the last second, using Tiberius' back as a springboard to catch the wind again. Tiberius crashed into the ground with a snap of thick bones breaking. He rolled to the edge of the field where he stayed curled into a protective ball, keening with pain. 

Wings beat slowly as Tony forced himself to find lift again. Muscles were starting to scream in protest. He'd never flown before. First flights were usually when a kit was much, much smaller, and weren't in the middle of a fight. He couldn't feel his wing joints through the pain. Still, he forced himself to keep flying, craning his head to look for Morgan.

It was the shadow that gave him away again. The sun darkened as Morgan stole Tony's trick, dropping down from above. Instinctively Tony twisted onto his back, catching Morgan's claws with his own and locking them together. They circled and snapped at each other, ice and fire meeting at the edges in little explosive bursts that singed the edges of their scales.

Steve slipped off Tony's shoulders and dropped down to his foreleg. Wind tugged at his tunic and cape, ripping the latter of when its clasp finally gave way. Tony watched him with a corner of his focus, doing his best to make sure Steve wasn't caught by any of the blasts. 

Morgan seemed to recognize Steve as the weak point. He turned his head, snapping at Steve, forcing Steve to scramble back on Tony's shoulder. A snap from Tony distracted him, but only for a second. He kept aiming for Steve, biting at his legs, letting off little shots of freezing cold that only barely missed. Their wrestling was dipping them lower and lower, height impossible to keep up the way they were. Every dip and twist Tony had to execute jostled Steve more. 

In one sharp move his feet slipped off Tony's front leg, until he was left dangling by only his arms. Tony felt it when Steve's weight started to swing, a faint shift in balance that pulled him back and forth once before his feet came up and his arms let go. 

Both heels caught Morgan square in the throat just as he pulled it back to let loose an icy attack. Morgan choked and screamed, a broken, wet sound like meat tearing. His attacks turned into panicked flailing as he fought to free himself from Tony's claws only to tangle them more.

Steve fell.

Tony didn't even think. He curled himself into a ball and kicked, yanking free of Morgan with a wet _crack_ of cartilage. Wings tucked in tight against his back, he made himself as small as possible against the wind and let his weight do the rest. Wind blurred his vision until he remembered to close the second lid. It shaded everything a delicate tint of blue as the ground rushed closer and closer. 

His forearms wrapped around Steve, tucking him in against his chest and snapping his wings out. The wind wrenched them back, joints and bone popping like little shots of fire. It took everything he had to force them to turn, catching the wind and soaring back up.

Morgan tumbled past, landing heavily enough that it dug a trench in the ice. Blood stained his pale scales pink as he coughed and clawed at his throat, wheezing for air.

As carefully as he could manage, Tony glided down, staggering to an awkward landing to avoid using his forearms. Against his chest, Steve was a steady, comforting burden, his cheek pressed against the heart of the crest. 

"Do you yield?" Tony demanded tiredly. Every part of him ached. If Morgan wanted to continue the fight, he wasn't sure he'd be able to without killing himself in the process. 

Luckily, Morgan nodded, head bowing and white wings drawn up over his head protectively. 

Dragons roared from the sidelines of the challenge field, wings and heads lifting in a rainbow of color. Healers rushed the field, collecting Tiberius and Morgan in the middle of little knots of busyness as they were hurried off. Overhead, the slim barrier of orange faded away to a golden shimmer, and then nothing as the challenge was ended.

Dropping to his forelegs, Tony somehow managed to put Steve down before his weight gave way and he collapsed. The world warped around him and suddenly he was smaller, curled up on the ice and shivering. He stayed awake long enough to feel the solid heat of Steve wrap around him.

And then, nothing.

* * *

Tony drifted in and out of consciousness for what might have been hours or days. His arms and chest burned like fire, shoulders felt like they'd been cracked with a sledge. Voices murmured in the background, faint whispers that he could only strain to hear before sleep claimed him again. The only constant through it was Steve. Steve's voice, Steve's smell, Steve's touch. Somewhere in the room, every time he woke, Steve was there.

When he finally woke up definitively, it was early evening. The moons peeked through eastern windows, thin streams of silver light that danced across the flagstones. Steve was a solid presence at his back, legs tangled together and arm wrapped around his waist.

Tentatively, Tony stretched, then hissed when old aches made themselves known. It wasn't the impossible, searing agony it had been before, but it still hurt. 

Steve's arm tightened around him, pressing into surprisingly sore stomach muscles. "Don't move. Let me get you the medicine the healers left first, okay?" Blankets rustled, and suddenly Steve's warm presence was replaced by a wash of cold air.

In spite of his stiffness, Tony twisted enough to yank the gap in the covers shut. "If by 'healer' you mean 'Jan', I'll pass." Her brews worked to ease pain, that was sure, but they also worked to ease verticality and sobriety. Tony didn't particularly want to be knocked into a drunken stupor when he'd just managed to climb out of a different sort of one. "How long was I out?" 

"Only a few days." Steve's back was turned at a table Tony didn't ever remember seeing in his room before. It was littered with pots and cups, little rolls of bandages and things that smelled like a bastardization of pine and mint. "Your shoulders were popped out of place. The healers thought it would be better if you stayed out of it while they healed.

"Oh." Just to make sure he could, Tony forced himself upright as far as he could, leaning back against a pillow. As he expected, his shoulders rebelled, but they were given back up from every single muscle and bone from his neck to his hips. Even his _hair_ hurt, and the worst of the fight had taken place when he didn't even have hair. "Morgan and Tiberius?"

Metal clinked against porcelain, and Steve turned back with a steaming cup of... _something_. When he held it under Tony's nose, it smelled like mint and willow, with a faint touch of something spicy. He eyed it suspiciously, but Steve's expression was resolute. 

Hoping that it wouldn't knock him out again, Tony swigged it down in a few gulps. It burned down his throat and immediately went to his aches, melting away the worst of them. There wasn't any accompanying wooziness or urge to seek a pillow, though, so it probably wasn't Jan's. 

When the cup was emptied, Tony looked up at Steve. "Morgan and Tiberius?" he repeated. "Did they die?" 

Steve sat on the edge of the bed. The slight shift in weight jostled Tony, but the pain wasn't as terrible as it had been. "They're alive." 

Tony waited for more, but nothing came. After a minute, he leaned over to nudge Steve's side. "And?" 

It didn't seem like Steve would answer at first. He bowed his head, shoulders and neck tense. "And they'll recover, mostly," he said finally. "Tiberius isn't going to fly again. One day Morgan might be able to use his ice, maybe." 

Guilt knotted Tony's stomach, making the tea churn. He didn't even understand it. They'd been in the field, they knew the risks. Morgan had killed his father, and if Tiberius hadn't been directly involved he'd at least been willing to help.

Morgan would have to be exiled when he was healed. Maybe Tiberius too, if he'd known about the poison. There hadn't been a challenge fight for the throne in centuries, and had never been one where the challenger survived. It was all uncharted territory—Tony would have to make it up as he went along. 

"Everyone says that you should have killed them."

Steve's voice made Tony flinch. He curled up his knees and leaned forward to grab them, ignoring the way his back protested the position. Muscles trembled from the strain, but he wanted to sit up, not to be half collapsed like a complete invalid. "I know. My father would have."

His father, who was dead, ashes already scattered in the mountains. There wasn't any grief, which worried Tony. He hadn't had time to grieve after the funeral, but there was time now and it wouldn't come. A major pillar of his life had been removed, and all Tony could think was, _He's probably glad he died before he had to be proud of me._

A warm, wide palm pressed into the small of his back. "Maybe you should have, maybe not. But they're alive now, and there's no use thinking about it."

"I could have them executed." Saying it aloud didn't make it sound better, didn't make it sound _real_. If Tiberius couldn't fly, execution might be kinder than exile, and Morgan would be dangerous if he could go free. There were dragon clans in the north, old dragons who never came together well enough to make a kingdom, who hated humans as much as Morgan did. It was a risk, letting them live. 

"Most people would for regicide." Steve's voice was even. 

Tony closed his eyes and sagged forward. "I couldn't."

_Fine king I'm going to be._

Executions didn't _happen_ in Aži-Táriyat. Usually if something was that serious, it ended up in the challenge field anyway. In a fight, if they'd gotten back up and kept attacking, Tony might have been able to do it. But the thought of deliberately and coldly taking them there to die make him sick.

They'd killed his father, and he couldn't even bring himself to execute them for it. 

The hand at his back slid around, and Tony found himself pulled up against Steve's side. The metal band of his bracelet was a sharp bite of cold against Tony's ribs. His head fit in the crook of Steve's shoulder, and if it wasn't the most comfortable way to sit, Tony didn't care.

"You still smell like dragon," he whispered through a tight throat. It was a small detail, but Tony needed something small to focus on. Anything other than what to do with Morgan and Tiberius. 

"Yeah," Steve laughed quietly. "You mother tried to explain that. I couldn't really follow anything she said."

"It's probably this." [Tony tapped Steve's bracelet](http://i1169.photobucket.com/albums/r514/phoenixmetaphor/rbb/bracelet_high.jpg). He couldn't feel any spells on it, not even a lingering trace of them. "Rules of an official challenge. No humans, no magic. No telling what this thing's doing to you right now. Probably not dangerous."

Steve got through the barrier. That meant something. Tony wasn't sure _what_ , but something. There was probably a scroll somewhere that would tell him about people like Steve. Wanda seemed to know a lot; if he had to he could ask her. They still had to pay her back for the information she'd already given them.

"You'll figure it out later. Sleep now." Their weight moved, and Steve slowly lowered them back to the bed. Tony fought it, but Steve's arm was like iron, and once they were laying down he didn't have the strength to sit up again on his own.

"I don't want to sleep," Tony protested, even as he turned to bury himself against Steve's side. Maybe there _had_ been something in the tea. He'd been fine sitting up, but as soon as he settled against Steve his head filled with sand and his eyelids drooped. "There's things I should be doing." He should see his mother, for one. She was still dealing with being widowed. See about the state of things in the citadel. Find out about the treaty from Steve's friends.

Talk to Morgan to find out the extent of his treason. 

Sleep was suddenly immensely appealing. 

"All of which you can do tomorrow." Warm wool blankets were tugged up over his shoulders and pinned in place with Steve's arm. " _Rest_."

Grumbling, Tony turned his face into Steve's chest and huffed. "Human tyrant." 

He thought he felt Steve laugh in a soft jump of muscles. "I know."


	10. Epilogue

Spring was always slow to start in the mountains, but once it got a toehold it didn't let go easily. The winds shifted to come from the west instead, turning from harsh gales to thermals and breezes good for gliding. Snow melted seemingly overnight, and in a week was replaced by a slow fur of greenery along the mountainsides.

Morgan's cabal of traitors had been thankfully small; they were only five in total, all of them old cronies of Morgan's who hated the idea of a half-human as heir. None of it had been surprising, or difficult to find out once Tony knew which string to pull. 

Tony watched from the top of his father's tower as the exiles were herded off to the north, Tiberius the only wingless shape in them, clinging to the back of one of the guards. They'd be left at the edge of the mountains, to fend for themselves or die trying. There'd been no executions, even though some of the noble dragons had taken a liking to the human custom. Tony wasn't going to start off his reign with a bloodbath, no matter how justified. 

No one had offered to wait with him, for which he could only be grateful. He didn't want anyone telling him that he'd chosen the right thing by letting them live. It was a weakness, and one he was going to have to live with.

He waited until they were out of sight before sliding down to the edge of the tower and climbing down, using the claws he'd built a lifetime ago, back when his father was alive and Morgan had only been an annoyance. 

Steve waited at the bottom of the tower, shield balanced on his knees and a piece of paper spread out over its face featuring a charcoal sketch of the mountains. The shield gleamed in the sun, red and blue enamel polished to a mirror shine. "They're gone?"

"Out of sight, at least." As soon as the claws let go, Tony dropped down to Steve's side. "He'll be back. Morgan doesn't give up easy."

"And you'll be ready when he does."

Tony would have liked to believe that. Instead of answering, he hooked their arms together and sagged sideways to watch Steve work. A silhouette of a dragon in flight came to life just over the edge of the horizon, back arched and wings spread for the wind. "I wish you didn't have to go."

The dragon darkened, scales being shaded in with delicate touches. "Someone needs to see Bucky and Natalia home. And your mother."

When she'd heard about the deal they'd made with Wanda, the former queen had decided to return east. _It's still my home,_ she'd said, and that had been all there was to it. Tony had a feeling that the stop in Vítahil would be explosive. Both Marias under the same roof was a spectacle he was glad to miss. Steve had a better chance of surviving than anyone else did. 

Still, necessity or no, that didn't mean Tony had to _like_ it. He dropped his temple against Steve's shoulder, snuggling in when his charcoal stick lifted off the page. "I'm going to miss you." Tony watched Steve from the corner of his eye. "You could stay here. Tell the Maria I kidnapped you. She'd believe it." Steve laughed, and Tony pressed on with his case. "I'll do it— don't think I won't. I'll sneak up in the middle of the night and whisk you away if she doesn't let you come back."

Twisting around, Steve bowed his head to catch Tony's lips in a soft kiss. "You don't have to kidnap me," he whispered. "I'll always come back for you."

**Author's Note:**

> As an added bonus, [this NSFW art](http://i1169.photobucket.com/albums/r514/phoenixmetaphor/rbb/happytrail_high.jpg) never actually happens in the story, but she drew it anyway.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic of]Waking The Dragon](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2342429) by [Dr_Fumbles_McStupid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dr_Fumbles_McStupid/pseuds/Dr_Fumbles_McStupid)




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